


The Pathologist and the Consulting Detective

by theSapphireSky



Series: The Detective and the Pathologist [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Molly, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Overprotective Mycroft, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlolly - Freeform, Warstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 75
Words: 89,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots and drabbles about our lovely duo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last to Know

If anyone were to wander into the morgue at St. Bart's on a Tuesday night, they would expect the silent solemnity that comes from handling the dead and their grieving loved ones.

What they would not expect would be an angry, petite pathologist covered in splatters of blood gesturing madly at a red-faced, somewhat short man in a torn jumper, gesturing just as madly.

The two people in question, one Molly Hooper and one John Watson, were good friends. Not that anyone would assume that, considering the volley of curses flying between the two this particular Tuesday night.

'And I'm telling you, Sherlock will find out one way or another!' John shouted, running an agitated hand through his short-cropped hair.

Molly planted her blood-covered, glove-clad hands on her hips. 'And I told  _you_ not to tell Mycroft! And what is the first thing you do? You go blathering to His Nibs! Of  _course_ Mycroft will not keep it a secret, there's nothing he likes more than one-upping Sherlock!'

John growled and breathed in five distinct deep breaths, an audible crack sounding as he clenched his teeth. 'I did not go blather- Why am I defending myself? Mycroft  _looked_ at me and deduced it.'

'No,' Molly huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, painting her white coat with more blood. 'That still doesn't excuse the fact that within ten minutes of promising to  _not say a word_ you spilled everything! Thank God you don't know any government secrets,' she mumbled the last bit angrily.

Throwing his hands in the air, John groaned. 'How was I to know he would kidnap me today and within two seconds deduce something about  _you_?'

'He's Mycroft Holmes, you complete tosser! He's better at deducing than Sherlock, you idiot! If I'd had a warning, I would have called him and explained or… or…' Molly huffed, flushing redder, if possible. 'Or even gotten a bit of a head start!'

'What the  _bloody Hell_  is going on?'

John and Molly whirled in surprise at the sudden intrusion. Standing in the doorway, a confused and angry expression on his usual stoic face, was Sherlock Holmes in all his deducing glory.

'John,' he snarled. 'Why are you upsetting my wife?'

Wisely backing away from the woman, John raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. 'I've got my hands full with my own wife. This one's all yours, mate. Good luck.'

As John fled the morgue, Sherlock stepped closer to the suddenly timid pathologist. 'Molly.'

At his entreating tone, Molly glanced up at him.

'What has Mycroft done?'

'Nothing!' No effort of deduction was needed for Sherlock to see through her blatant lie. Her hands twisted in front of her and she was looking everywhere but at him. Her too peppy voice squeaked and she swallowed thickly.

'Molly,' he repeated, a warning in his tone.

'What brings you here at this hour, Sherlock?' Molly turned back to the body on the examining table, attempting to avoid his puppy eyes.

She heard him move to the other side of the table. 'I was bored. I missed you. Do I need any other reason to visit?'

Molly smiled despite her nerves. 'No.'

She felt his eyes on her as she completed the autopsy. No doubt trying to deduce what was going on. She knew she would have to tell him what happened before Mycroft or John did. But she was afraid. Afraid of his reaction.

As she finished stitching the body and placing it in cold storage, Sherlock's gaze followed her closely. She stripped the gloves off her hands and, glancing down, groaned at the sheer amount of blood and bodily fluids she'd managed to get on her usually pristine white lab coat.

The clock on the wall ticked in the silence as she scrubbed herself clean. A quick glance told her it was nearly the end of her late shift. She rolled her shoulders, stiff from working 12 hours straight. She'd been dreaming of a hot bath and a good book since she clocked in. Some take away wouldn't miss either. If she played it right, she could probably get Sherlock to give her a foot massage.

'Molly,' Sherlock's voice broke through her daydreams. 'Tell me.'

She sighed. She turned to face him. Now or never.

Before she could even take a breath, the doors to the morgue burst open and a trio of armed men strode into the morgue. Their broad shoulders and intimidating posture immediately set Molly and Sherlock on the defensive and offensive, respectively. Sherlock jumped from his stool and pulled Molly behind him. She curled her hands into the thick fabric of his ever-present Belstaff, peering around him to watch as the men stepped closer. Sherlock's eyes flicked over the intruders, deducing a plethora of information.

Three heavy, tension-laden seconds passed before Sherlock relaxed and stood aside, pulling Molly to his side. 'May I ask why my brother has seen fit to send three of his best agents to scare my pathologist?'

'We are here to escort your wife to her flat, Mister Holmes,' the man in the middle replied.

'Am I to know why Mycroft suddenly believes I am incapable of walking her myself?'

The men looked at each other, then at her. Molly's heart jumped into her throat. They knew. Clapping a hand to her head, she groaned. The number of people knowing kept jumping, while the only person she actually wanted to know was still clueless.

'Sherlock.' She tugged on his sleeve, but he ignored her, staring down the men.

'Well?'

'Mister Holmes, if you would like a private moment, we will step into the hall,' the man on the far right offered. The one of the left spoke quietly into a near-invisible ear piece.

Molly nodded gratefully, but Sherlock cut them off. 'No, I'd like to know why Mycroft is interfering with my life again. Is Molly in danger? Has a threat been made?'

'Sherlock,' Molly tried interrupting again, but he continued to ignore her.

A loud ringing broke through the tension. Sherlock growled and whipped out his phone, tugging Molly tighter to his side. She wrapped her arms around his slim waist and tucked her face into the curve of his chest, feeling all her control of the situation slipping through her fingers.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock barked into the speaker. 'Is Molly in danger? Or are you simply trying to scare her to death?'

His brother's muffled reply sounded indignant. Molly smirked. She loved Mycroft, but he was very over-protective. Her heart rate was still very much elevated.

'Then why send three agents, your  _best_ agents, I might add, to simply walk her home?'

Molly swallowed thickly. She couldn't hear Mycroft's exact reply, but by the sudden stiffening of Sherlock's posture, she knew the man had let the secret out.

'Ah. I see,' Sherlock mumbled. With a distracted fumbling, he ended the call and placed the phone on the table beside them.

Molly bit her lip and started to pull away. Her retreat was blocked by Sherlock's iron-like hold around her shoulders. He made a shooing motion and the agents quietly and efficiently left the room, standing guard in the hall.

They stood in silence for several minutes before Sherlock spoke.

'Apparently, Mycroft has been the recipient of very exciting news. He is most pleased and has made arrangements for you to be under the protection of his best agents.'

Molly smiled at the sweet gesture from the normally distant government man.

'This protection is to be in place for the next 9 months, after which two additional agents will be assigned for the continued protection his future niece or nephew,' Sherlock said matter-of-factly. But Molly could feel the tension in his body.

She pulled away, letting his arm fall limply to his side.

'Apparently, our child will be under heavier guard than the Prince of Cambridge,' he smirked. Seeing she was still uncertain, he leaned forward and kissed her tenderly.

'Are you okay with a baby?' She asked quietly.

Sherlock placed a hand on her still-flat abdomen and shrugged his shoulders. 'I'm not okay with five other men knowing about the existence of our child before me. But other than that, I find I am amenable to the change in our situation.'

Molly covered his hand with both of hers. 'Well, it's not my fault. You should have deduced it three weeks ago when I missed my cycle!' She laughed at the indignant look on his face as he pulled his hands away.

'Why would you tell John before me? Or Mycroft, for that matter!' He crossed his arms in a pout and turned his face away.

Molly tugged on his hands and placed them on her waist. Standing on her tiptoes, she wrapped her arms around his neck and planted tender kisses along his collarbone. He eventually capitulated to her enticement and pulled her up against his body.

'John came in to get the lab results you forgot just as I finished doing a blood test. He, of course, couldn't keep his mouth shut and told Mycroft during his weekly kidnapping,' Molly explained, her fingers toying with the familiar curls at the nape of his neck. She bit her lip. 'I should really apologize for yelling at him. It wasn't his fault, not really.'

Sherlock shivered at her touch. 'No, it wasn't. But he is somewhat unreliable in the secrets department.'

Molly giggled and rolled her eyes.

He bent to kiss her and mumbled darkly against her lips, 'So, Mrs. Holmes, what shall we do to get even with my dear brother?'

'That's  _Doctor_  Holmes.' Molly jokingly slapped his shoulder. 'And Mycroft meant well. It's not his fault we were scared.'

' _You_  were scared,' Sherlock sniffed. 'I was merely intrigued.'

'Of course, dear,' Molly smirked.

He wiped the smug look off her face with a swift kiss, deepening it until she moaned and very nearly melted against him.

'You were saying?' He panted as he pulled away.

Molly groaned in response and tugged on his neck, trying to bring his lips back to hers.

With a laugh, he eagerly obliged.


	2. Undercover Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During Molly's final year at Uni, she fell for a dashing professor. But is he who he claims to be?

Molly stared at the ground, biting her lip in a desperate attempt to keep it from trembling. Her tears mixed with the muggy drizzle, a small blessing. Chaos surrounded them, medics shouting and more men in NSY jackets turning up by the carload.

'So, you're not actually a professor.' She peeked up at him, feeling every inch the idiot.

Sherlock took a deep breath, as though bracing himself. 'No.'

The word hung heavy between them as the flashing lights cut harsh shadows across their faces.

'And…' Her voice wavered tellingly. 'And what about us?'

His silence told her everything, even as her heart froze in her chest.

'Right. Okay.'

His feet shifted forward slightly. With gentle press of his lips to her temple and a breath across her cheek, she closed her eyes tightly as he murmured, 'Good-bye, Miss Hooper. And for what it is worth, I  _am_ sorry.'

She looked up just in time to see the tail of his long coat billow behind him as he slipped gracefully through the chaos into the shadows, a shorter, blond man rushing to catch up.

With all the strength she could muster in her heartbreak, she whispered, 'Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes.'

* * *

**Six months later**

'Come on, Molls! He's a fantastic guy, I know you'll like him!' Meena pleaded, pulling her 'pretty-please' face that never failed to bring Molly to her knees just to get her to stop. They were sitting in a small café near St. Bart's. Within the first week Molly began working there, Meena had practically wrangled her into an unlikely friendship. Where Meena was stunning, bubbly, and outgoing, Molly felt plain, awkward, and completely socially inept. But somehow their friendship worked perfectly.

Molly sighed and fiddled with her stirring spoon. 'Meena, please. I just—'

'You just want to sit at home and wallow about the guy who got away.' Meena huffed in frustration. 'Trevor will make you forget that lying bastard with one kiss. And after one night… woo!' She fanned herself dramatically.

Molly laughed at her friend's antics, but remained resolute. 'It's still a 'no.' I don't think it is right to get over one guy by getting under another.'

'You might rethink your position when you see Trevor in tight jeans,' Meena quipped, but thankfully dropped the subject.

Molly relaxed.

Six months gone and it was still painful to think on Sherlock Holmes, the bane of her love life, the lying detective who masqueraded as a professor, who stole her heart and used her obvious infatuation to his advantage. Granted, her acquiescence to him and his 'desire' to sneak around with her in the University's labs were instrumental to foiling a student's bomb plot. But that didn't soothe the sting of his deception.

Well, not much.

If she ever came across that man again, she'd slap him silly. Something she regretted not doing when his deception was revealed. But in the chaos and emotional upheaval of that night, the thought never crossed her mind.

But now… Well, now, she'd slap him so hard his face would be red for a week. That would teach him to manipulate her feelings. She wasn't some doe-eyed ninny. She would have helped had he been honest with her from the beginning. Instead, while she worked on her final doctorate research, he'd swept into her life as a visiting professor and courted her, using her rapidly growing feelings to get unlimited lab access.

The utter bastard.

She finished her coffee quickly as Meena exchanged overtly flirtatious looks with the cute barista behind the counter.

Molly shook her head in exasperation and stood to leave. 'I'll see you in the lab later, yeah?'

'Mmmm, not if I can convince that hunk of man to play hooky for the afternoon.' Meena rewarded his cheeky wink with a salacious smile.

Laughing, Molly grabbed her jacket and waved goodbye. As she made her way out onto the street she brushed past a blond man on his way in.

She hadn't gone more than a few steps when a voice called out to her.

'Miss Hooper? It is Molly Hooper, isn't it?'

Molly stopped in her path, turning around to find the blond man staring at her in confused surprise, standing in the doorway of the café.

'It's 'Doctor,' actually.' Stepping out of the way of the walking crowd, she frowned at the man. 'Do I know you?'

'It is you! You were there. At the university that night.'

Molly's eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat. She immediately turned away and began rushing down the street.

'Hey, wait! No, that's not… wait!'

Molly ignored his calls. Glancing behind her, she could see him staring after her in bewilderment. He seemed genuinely confused. But she learned the hard way to look past a kind face and a harmless-looking, somewhat tacky jumper. He was most likely a reporter trying to get an inside scoop at a very down-played bomb plot, something the media had been trying to get to the bottom of since that night.

_Well, I won't be the idiot who opens her big mouth._

* * *

**Several Weeks Later**

It was a common sight to see Detective Inspector Lestrade in the morgue and he and Molly had developed an easy rapport. On this particular day, they were bent over the body of a possible mugging victim. In the midst of Molly's preliminary examination, the doors to the morgue flew open.

Without looking up, Molly called out to whoever entered, 'I'll be with you in a mo.'

Suddenly, a shadow fell across the body.

'I said-' Whatever else she was going to say was choked as she lifted her head and came face to face with the very person she'd spent six months trying to forget.

'Oh, right. Molly, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's being brought in as a consultant for this case. Usually around more often, but he's been undercover in the States since the spring.' Lestrade introduced them, oblivious to the sudden paling of Molly's face and the fierce look on Sherlock's.

'Ahem.'

Molly flinched at the sound, breaking her eyes away from Sherlock's intense gaze to see a shorter, blond man standing a couple feet behind him.

'And that's his… assistant, Doctor John Watson.'

'Assistant?' The blond man,  _John_ , seemed almost offended. But he shook it off and extended a hand and a smile to Molly. In a surprised daze, she lifted her hand, before noticing she was still wearing gloves and swiftly pulling it back with an apologetic smile. The man looked awfully familiar. But she didn't have time to think on it before Sherlock was rattling off a plethora of deductions about the body between them, leaning down to examine the body closely.

'Twenty-something, bleached blonde hair, hand-me-downs or thrift store buys, no sign of regular jewelry, fingernails somewhat jagged.'

He straightened and locked eyes with Molly once more. 'Not a mugging victim. She had nothing of value on her and nothing to indicate she was wealthy in any manner. No, it was definitely the brother, as I told you before, Graham.'

'It's Greg,' Lestrade grumbled. 'And I wasn't about to interrogate someone until we were sure it was personal.'

Sherlock sighed as though burdened. 'And now that we've wasted valuable time, he has gotten a head start on his escape. Better scurry off and catch him.'

Lestrade cursed, more at Sherlock than the situation, and ran off.

Molly cleared her throat as Sherlock returned his full attention to her. Anger burned through her. How could he stand there and stare indifferently at her, as though he hadn't ripped out her heart and disappeared from her life, leaving her utterly wrecked. With as much fury as she could muster in her usually timid voice, she spat, 'Is there anything else, Mister Holmes? Or shall I pop out for some coffee and scones? I know how you like to be waited on while you work.'

He blinked at her, as though surprised.

'We apologize for taking up your time.' John stepped forward and pulled on Sherlock's arm. 'Come on, mate. It's time to leave.'

Molly caught a glimpse of an off-white jumper as the other doctor's jacket gaped. Put together with his face, she frowned. 'That was you in the café, wasn't it?'

Abandoning his attempt to pull Sherlock out the door, John smiled sheepishly and rubbed his neck. 'Yeah. Didn't really approach you very well, huh.'

She shrugged with a rueful smile. She tilted her head as she looked at him, remembering the man who followed Sherlock from the crime scene. Her heart sunk as she realized it was the same man. They were partners... together. 'So, you're…' Molly couldn't speak the words, but waved a hand between the two of them.

John looked horrified for a minute, then laughed. 'No,  _God_ no. Completely heterosexual, thank you very much.'

Molly blushed furiously in embarrassment. 'Sorry.' If Sherlock had been involved with this other man, it would definitely have helped heal her broken heart, knowing he left her because he wasn't interested in women, not because he wasn't interested in  _her._

She sighed inwardly. No such luck.

Sherlock continued to stare at her, no doubt deducing the past six months of stress-eating, crying fits, and dates that never measured up to him.

The three stood in awkward silence for several minutes while Molly began to prep for the autopsy, waiting for Sherlock to take the hint and leave.

'You're single.'

The tray of scalpels shook loudly in her hands when his voice broke through the silence. Swallowing thickly, she clenched her teeth. 'What of it?'

He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head in response.

'So,' John clapped his hands. He glanced between the two of them with a strange smile on his face. 'You're single. I'm heterosexual. And there's a movie playing at the cinema with two seats just waiting to be filled.' He winked at her as Sherlock's expression turned oddly serene. 'May I have the honor of your company?'

Blushing madly at the charming flirt, she smiled shyly. 'I'd love-'

'John,' Sherlock interrupted loudly, whirling about to face his friend, the tails of his coat billowing out behind him dramatically. 'If you recall, there is a perfectly lovely woman working at the clinic who has been waiting for you to make a move. I believe she is a far better candidate for your companionship than a pathologist.'

John smirked and shoved his hands into his pockets. 'I do believe you're correct, Sherlock. As usual. But then Doctor Hooper here would be without companionship tonight. And after I'd already invited her along.' He pretended to think for a moment. 'Perhaps Lestrade would be willing to double date. He's recently divorced and you seem to like him well enough, Doctor Hooper.'

'Unacceptable.' Sherlock sneered.

'And why is that, Sherlock?'

'If the two of you don't mind,' Molly interrupted, 'I'll pass on the movie. Thank you for the invitation. I trust you know the way out.' She couldn't help the biting tone as she slammed the tray down and willed back the rush of humiliation the conversation was eliciting. Right now, she wanted them out before she collapsed into tears.

With an apologetic smile, John finally managed to pull Sherlock away. The door swung shut on his 'buffering' face. No sooner had their footsteps faded than the tears flowed. He had looked dashing and capable, no sign of regret or hurt following the breakup of their faux relationship.  _And why should there be? He knew all along it wasn't real._ I _was the idiot who fell for it. For him._

Putting the body back into cold storage, she called her boss and as briefly as possible told him she was taking a sick day. The next pathologist on duty would do the autopsy. And Molly would go home and wallow into a bottle of wine.

She shook off her lab coat as she shouldered her way into the locker room. She jumped back in surprise, dropping it to the floor, when she saw Sherlock leaning against the lockers. Specifically,  _her_ locker.

Self-consciously, she brushed the tears from her cheeks and picked up her coat. 'What do you want?'

He straightened, a soft look on his normally stoic face. 'I wanted to speak with you.'

'And you thought the women's locker room was the ideal place for that conversation?' She snapped.

He didn't answer, but stepped closer. She stepped back in response, noticing the fleeting expression of hurt cross his face.

'I want to apologize.'

'Why?'

He frowned. ''Why' what?'

'Why do you want to apologize?' Molly crossed her arms and stared him down.

'Because,' he said slowly, his eyes darting around the room as though looking for the answer. 'I hurt you.'

'Yes, you did.' She focused on the anger she felt, pushing aside the sadness until she'd had her say. 'Do you know exactly what you did that hurt me?'

'I do. And I apologize.'

'Then say it.'

'I did.'

'No,' Molly snapped. 'Say exactly what you are sorry for. I want to know that  _you_  know what is was that you did that was wrong and hurtful.'

'I apologize… for…' He trailed off, unable to answer.

'For what, Sherlock?' Molly crossed the distance between them and prodded his chest harshly. 'For lying to me? For manipulating me? For abandoning me with no explanation? For thinking I wasn't good enough? For  _what_?!' She shouted, all attempts at aloofness discarded as her fury peaked.

'For all of it.'

He spoke so softly, Molly nearly missed it. She blinked in surprise at the sudden dropping of his mask. His eyes were lined with sorrow, the cupid's bow lips she adored trembled almost imperceptibly, and tears filled his eyes. His hands hesitantly came to rest on her hips as he took a deep breath.

'I am sorry. For making you think that I abandoned you. For making you think you weren't good enough. I deceived you and manipulated you for my own purpose. But, at the end, I realized the feelings I pretended to have for you had begun to invade my mind. I believe the mind is greater than the heart, logic overruling sentiment. But suddenly, all my mind would think of was you. And it scared me. So I ran when everything came to light.'

Molly slowly rested her hands against his chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat under her fingertips. Her anger melted away, but the hurt remained.

'I would have addressed it sooner, but someone called in a favor and I found myself chasing a drug king pin across the state of Florida.' He chuckled at the memory before returning a solemn gaze to the pathologist he held in his arms.

Molly swallowed thickly and raised her eyes to his.

'I am sorry, Molly,' he breathed, leaning his forehead gently against hers. 'Please… forgive me?'

'Does this mean you- I don't want to assume…' Molly stammered, pulling away to look up at him uncertainly.

'This means that I will be spending an exorbitant amount of time trying to undo the hurt I've caused you.' He pressed a shy kiss to her temple. She closed her eyes at his touch, the open wound in her heart starting to stitch itself closed. In silence, he held her close, whispering words to ease her doubt. Slowly, she relaxed and wrapped her arms around his waist, fisting her hands in the fabric of his coat.

But when he ducked his head to kiss her properly, she pulled away from his embrace. He frowned and tried to pull her back.

A smile broke across her face and she stepped further from his reach.

'Uh-uh, Mister Holmes. After all, I barely know the real you. I'm not the kind of girl to kiss just anyone.' She enjoyed the way his eyes darkened at her teasing tone. She slipped around him and grabbed her bag from her locker. 'So if you want me…' She smiled sweetly as she backed her way to the door. '…you'll have to date me.'

He smirked as she slipped from the room. Relief washed over him at the second chance he'd been given.

'Very well, Doctor Hooper.' He chuckled to himself. 'Challenge accepted.'


	3. Of Hot Water Bottles and Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Sherlock doting on Molly whilst she is on her period... (Unilock)

Groaning in pain, Molly rolled over onto her stomach, a pillow clutched tightly to her middle, her sheets swathed around her body.

‘I’m heading to the shop. Want me to stock up on some paracetamol?’ Mary stuck her blonde head into the room and snorted, clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of Molly wrapped up in her sheet. They’d been roommates since their first year at Uni and she had quickly gotten used to Molly’s need to cocoon herself during her particularly vicious periods. But that didn’t mean she didn’t find it hilariously adorable when Molly was wrapped up like a burrito.

Molly peeked out at her in gratitude. ‘Yes, please. And maybe some chocolate?’ She asked hopefully, but from Mary’s sympathetic smile, it came across as nothing more than absolutely pathetic.

It wasn’t often that her time of the month was this bad. Normally it came and went with a normal amount of discomfort. But sometimes it was like her body was engaging in a battle that involved, what she could only assume were, violent sacrifices of her pain to some age-old god.

Her phone jingled on the table by her bed. A text message flashed across the screen.

_Received your text canceling our date. You were apologetic, but short. Therefore, I am led to believe I did something wrong. I apologize if I inadvertently hurt you. SH._

Molly rolled her eyes at her socially inept boyfriend. Reaching a hand out of her cocoon, she grabbed the phone and typed out a reply.

_You did nothing wrong. I just don’t feel well. M_

Within seconds, he replied.

_You did not sign with your usual, though childish, kisses in the form of an x. Therefore, I conclude once more that you are angry with me. SH._

_xxxxxxxxx. Happy? M_

_No. Your supposed illness is causing you to act very out of character. I await your recovery. SH._

Molly huffed and slapped her phone back on the table. Too much to hope that her boyfriend would come comfort her. Then again, they’d only been dating five months. A bit too soon for him to be witness to the physical and emotional consequences of her body’s monthly battle. Even if he was a very unusual man anyway.

She shifted to try to relieve the pain in her abdomen. _Bloody waste of a Saturday._ She grumbled and pouted, mad at just about everything from her body to her boyfriend to her roommate who should have been back with those pain meds fifteen minutes ago.

_I should probably text Mary and ask her to hurry back…_

Having finally found a comfortable position, her entire body relaxed.

_Maybe in a minute…_

Her eyes grew heavy and she began to doze, a welcome respite from the pain.

She awoke with a jolt at the sound of a door slamming next door. She shifted her head to look at her alarm clock, blinking blearily and sighing as she realized she’d slept for less than an hour.

_Well, Mary should be back with the paracetamol by now._

She began to sit up, but frowned at an unfamiliar pressure on her abdomen. Pulling the sheet away from her body, she stared down at an old-fashioned hot water bottle that had been cocooned inside her sheet-burrito with her.

‘Um… right,’ she mumbled as she picked it up gingerly and placed it on the floor beside the bed. ‘That’s new.’

Confused, she stood up and made her way into the common room. The light in the kitchen nook was on and the faucet was running. ‘I hope you’ve got my pain drugs, Mary, otherwise you’ll be volunteering for my next autopsy practical.’

With a pained groan, Molly slid facedown onto the sofa. The faucet shut off and she heard the unmistakable sound of a bottle of pills being shaken. Burying her face into the dip of the sofa, she held out her hand expectantly.

Footsteps preceded a couple pills being dropped into her palm and the sound of a glass being set on the coffee table. Molly forced herself to turn over and sit up. Mumbling a thanks to a watching Mary, she reached for the glass of water. She froze with the glass halfway to her lips as she realized the legs across from her were not shapely or womanly or _Mary’s_ at all.

Her wide eyes traveled up the slim, masculine, jean-clad legs to a familiar blue button-down up to the face of her clearly uncomfortable boyfriend. His curls were unruly, as though he’d ran a hand through them, and his normally stoic expression was softened by uncertainty.

‘Hello,’ she mumbled in surprise.

Sherlock forced a brief smile. ‘Hello.’

When she didn’t move, he reached down and guided the glass to her lips. Automatically, she swallowed the pills, her eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. He took the now-empty glass and set it back on the table.

‘Wh-what are you doing here?’ Molly finally managed to say.

Sherlock maneuvered around the coffee table and sat beside her, lifting her legs onto his lap.

‘Is this not what _couples_ do? Care for each other during bouts of illness?’ He seemed genuinely confused. She was ill. He knew she needed him and he wanted to make sure she was taken care of.

Molly smiled fondly and sat back into the cushions. ‘Talked to John, did you?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘He took no pleasure in telling me why you were more than a bit tetchy.’

‘Oi,’ Molly frowned in offense. ‘You’d be a bit tetchy too if your stomach tore its lining off once a month.’

Knowing he was treading a very thin rope, Sherlock leaned over the side of the couch and pulled up several shop bags, each filled heavily. ‘And I’m sorry for that. Chocolate?’ He reached into one of the bags and withdrew several large blocks of the finest, richest chocolate available.

Molly was torn between calling him out on his attempt to appease her after his ‘tetchy’ comment and grabbing the bars and stuffing her face.

She settled for the latter. If Sherlock was surprised at her ferocity in opening the candy’s wrappings, he hid it well. _A wise move on his part,_ she thought with a smile.

‘What else did you bring?’ She mumbled around a bite of chocolate.

Dumping the bags onto the table, he shuffled through the bounty. ‘Besides the paracetamol, which you’ve already taken, there are several idiotic romantic comedies I shall suffer through should you wish for company, a hot water bottle, various sugary treats-’

‘You brought that hot water bottle?’ Molly interrupted.

‘I read that it was a highly effective method of easing cramps. Was I misinformed?’ He suddenly seemed unsure.

Molly shook her head. ‘You did very well. Thank you.’ She leaned over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. ‘Although, it is a little scary how you snuck it inside my cocoon without waking me.’

‘I could make a very good living as a pick-pocket.’

‘And yet you’re an aspiring detective. Quite the opposite life choice.’ She laughed and took another bite of chocolate, brushing the flakes from her pajama top. ‘So, how did you know what to get? Google?’ She enjoyed the slight reddening of his cheeks at her teasing.

‘Mary, actually. Texted me a shopping list and threatened to have me banned from bringing John along on any ‘wild adventures’ if I didn’t man-up and take care of you in the midst of your… unfortunate condition.’

‘How sweet,’ Molly droned.

A genuine smile creased his face as he shifted closer, rubbing a comforting hand up and down her leg. ‘Molly,’ he said slowly, ‘even when you are not at your best, when your hair is untamed, you’re wearing two-day old jammies, and your breath is frankly atrocious-’

‘Thanks for that,’ Molly interjected with a huff.

He placed a finger gently against her lips. ‘Even in all that, I still find you… endearing.’

She blushed under his tender gaze.

‘And even though I am uneducated in this manner of things…’ He threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed gently. ‘…I am willing to learn for you.’

Tears filled Molly’s eyes.

‘And now the tears. Yes, John warned me about the mood swings.’

Molly laughed gently as a few tears fell. Knowing that his admission must have cost him a lot of emotional energy he normally never expended, Molly simply smiled at him and turned away.

‘Movie then?’ She offered.

Sherlock sighed loudly. ‘I suppose.’

She giggled and leaned over to look at the titles he brought.

‘Um, Sherlock?’

‘Yes?’

‘ _Die_ _Hard_ is _not_ a romantic comedy.’

‘…my mistake.’

‘I’m sure it was.’ 


	4. Dance with Me, Mister Government Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt from weasleygirl928: Sherlock and Molly's wedding ceremony and reception

The peppy song and general merriment grated on Mycroft Holmes’ nerves. He resisted the urge to undo the stifling bowtie around his neck, but only because he refused to appear less than perfectly put-together. He glanced at his watch. Only forty minutes to go until it would be somewhat socially acceptable for him to leave.

‘Why aren’t you dancing?’

Not looking up from his seat at the table at the voice above him, Mycroft replied, ‘Dancing is merely the human need to put one’s body on display.’ He threw back the three fingers of whiskey in the glass he’d been fiddling with for twenty minutes. ‘I have no such need.’

The moment he set the empty glass down, a small, but strong hand wrapped itself around his wrist and yanked him from his seat. Stumbling in surprise, he allowed himself to be dragged around the table and onto the floor, mumbling various protests. Finally, his captor released him only to turn around and stare him down.

The top of her head barely made it to the ridiculous bowtie he’d been forced to wear, but the fire in Molly Holmes’ eyes was formidable enough to compensate. Placing her hands on the waist of her ridiculously flouncy dress, she quirked an eyebrow. ‘Dance with me, Mister Government Man.’

Mycroft resisted the urge to smile at how adorable she looked when she was trying to be tough and glared down at her. ‘I do not dance.’

Suddenly, the music shifted from a horrendous pop song to a gentle waltz. Against his will, Mycroft’s fingers twitched at the familiar tune. Molly smiled widely at the spark of interest in his eyes. With a sigh, Mycroft relented and placed one hand on her waist and with the other, picked up her ring-adorned hand, the sparkling diamond solitaire accompanied now by a simple band of gold. Years of dance lessons came rushing back as he guided them around the dance floor, easily settling into the familiar rhythm.

‘I knew it.’ Molly beamed up at him in triumph. ‘You’re a closet dancer!’

Mycroft rolled his eyes in a decidedly posh manner. ‘As was my dear brother, I was forced to attend dance lessons as part of the Eaton education system. A ridiculous waste of resources, but, in my current line of work, vaguely useful.’

‘Admit it, Mycroft, you dance in private, too.’

He sniffed and glanced about the room as they turned another 90 degrees. ‘I will admit no such thing.’

She hummed cheerily in response as they maneuvered around other dancing couples, though most had chosen to watch those with more practice. The song was soon coming to an end and Mycroft, not to be without his shows of talent, suddenly twirled Molly out, the skirt of her dress whirling around her in a flash of white. The look of delighted surprise on her face was enough encouragement for him to pull her back to his chest and, with a mischievous smile, dip her just as the song ended.

Laughing, Molly let her head fall back as Mycroft lifted her to her feet. Her cheeks were pink from merriment and the exertion of dancing. Still giggling, she leaned up and placed a kiss on his cheek.

He stepped back and bowed, trying to hide the slight increase in his breathing from the exercise.

‘Stealing what’s mine already, brother mine?’ Sherlock walked around him and pulled Molly to his side. His teasing glare held no heat. ‘And at my own wedding reception. How very tactless.’

Molly slapped her husband’s chest lightly. ‘Well, if you hadn’t been dancing with Mrs. Hudson, I wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere for a waltz partner.’

Sherlock pressed a tender kiss to her temple. ‘I shall claim the next waltz, then. And show you how it’s _supposed_ to be done.’

Mycroft simply smirked at the jab and straightened his waistcoat firmly. ‘It would do you well to remember, Sherlock, who currently holds Eaton’s top marks for the waltzing competition.’

Abandoning Molly’s side, Sherlock stepped closer and poked a finger under his brother’s nose. ‘You cheated. Those high of scores are impossible to achieve and we both know it.’

‘Prove it.’ Mycroft raised his eyebrows in challenge.

‘Boys,’ Molly’s soft voice interrupted. ‘How about I be the judge? Sherlock, if you would?’ She held her arm out to her husband. Sherlock threw one last glare at Mycroft before pulling Molly onto the dance floor.

Sherlock gestured to the DJ and the pop song currently playing was immediately replaced with another waltz. He drew Molly into his arms and, with practiced ease, they fell into the familiar 1-2-3 of the waltz.

Molly’s eyes shone at she stared up at her husband with unmasked adoration, completely trusting him to guide them around the floor. Sherlock, usually as stoic and emotionless as Mycroft, was an open book. His face alight with love and joy as he held his wife in his arms, occasionally chuckling as he twirled her out and her laughter ringing out joyfully in response.

As Mycroft watched them, he conceded that maybe, just this once, Sherlock was better.  


	5. Daisies and Coffee Dates

A prompt from a lovely Nonny: _Hello darling, if you're still accepting Sherlolly prompts, could you do one where Sherlock asks Molly to coffee and she accepts but she thinks he's just asking to be friendly, Sherlock on the other hand was asking her as a way of courting her. Thanks so much!_

* * *

The Fall of Faux Moriarty had taken place almost six months to the day. And Molly and Sherlock had quickly fallen into a somewhat stilted professional relationship. After his lapse into fake relationships and very real drug use, Molly had dug her heels in and refused to cave to his usual manipulations. She banned him from both the morgue and lab without being accompanied by a Detective Inspector or, preferably, John, who would keep him socially in line.

It was on this day that Sherlock determined to fix the situation. He had endured six months, 184 frustrating days, of Molly’s cold shoulder, her disappointed gazes, her angry refusals to give him lab access, and the heavy air of heartbreak surrounding her.

Several conversations with John and more than a few lectures from Mary were the final push he needed to make him realize the sinking feeling in his gut when Molly turned away from him was rooted in his own heartbreak.

So, there he stood, gazing through the small window outside the morgue as Molly finished scrubbing clean from an autopsy. She had lost weight since the Magnussen and Moriarty ordeals, her usual peppy ponytail seemed to hang limp, no longer swishing happily across her back.

His fists clenched around the bouquet of flowers he held behind his back. Taking a deep breath, he slowly pushed the door open and slipped inside.

Molly glanced over her shoulder as she washed her hands and narrowed her eyes when she saw him. ‘Greg or John with you?’

He shook his head.

Molly turned back around and slammed the faucet off. Flinging the water from her hands, she grabbed a nearby hand towel. ‘Then wait outside until one of them gets here. Or until the next pathologist shows up for his shift, because I’m heading home.’

He stepped closer.

‘Sherlock.’ Molly warned, turning around with her arms crossed over her chest.

He easily read the defensive posture despite her attempt to seem angry and unmoving. She was still very much hurt and disappointed. He swallowed thickly and brought the bouquet around. Her eyes widened at the yellow daisies, her favourite. He kept his smug smile to himself as her cool façade melted slightly.

‘For you.’ He held them out to her, starting to relax as she hesitantly took them.

She buried her nose in the petals, breathing deeply. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled briefly at him before her expression turned hard once more. ‘But this won’t get you access without supervision.’

‘I was actually hoping…’ He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, trying to appear confident when he really wasn’t. ‘I was hoping you would accompany me for coffee?’ He flashed her a winning smile.

Molly looked up at him uncertainly from amidst the flowers. She bit her lip as he shifted nervously on the balls of his feet. With a resigned sigh, she acquiesced.

‘Alright. But not the swill in the canteen. I want the good stuff.’ She placed the flowers in an empty beaker and filled it with a bit of water. ‘I’ll meet you upstairs in five.’

Molly may not have seemed ecstatic about a coffee date, but she had agreed to go out and that was a start. Sherlock grinned as he waited in the lobby, terrifying the receptionist on duty who was not accustomed to seeing the Consulting Detective smile without horrific circumstances around. He practically bounced on his toes as Molly shouldered her way through the doors, clutching her large bag and struggling to put on her coat. He quickly rushed to her side and took her bag for her.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, finally getting her arm into the sleeve. When she went to take the bag back, he held it out of reach. ‘Sherlock, give me my bag.’

‘I shall carry it for you, it is quite heavy and you are clearly tired from a long shift.’

Molly stared at him in complete befuddlement. ‘So?’

He frowned down at her. ‘Was that not good?’

‘No, I mean, yes. I mean,’ she stammered. ‘It’s nice of you to offer to carry it, but it’s not something you normally… you _ever_ … do. It’s… odd.’ She ducked her head as a blush rose in her cheeks.

A pang of hurt hit him at her deduction. But he pushed it aside and held out his arm. ‘Then I shall endeavor to be more… _odd._ For you.’ He winked flirtatiously.

A look of bemused confusion passed over her face as she hesitantly placed her arm in his. ‘Th-that’s… good.’

Together, they walked out and headed towards Molly’s favourite café. Sherlock happily rattled on about his and John’s latest case as they walked. Molly hummed distractedly in all the right places, but it took several minutes for Sherlock to see that she wasn’t paying much attention.

He frowned. ‘Molly, did you not want to accompany me?’ Had her feelings for him vanished entirely? His heart ached at the thought.

She blinked as she realized he’d asked her a question. ‘What? Oh, no that’s not…’ She took a deep breath and pulled away. Just a few blocks from the café, they stopped and faced each other.

‘Sherlock, I appreciate the flowers. And the offer for coffee. But things can’t… they can’t go back to being the way they were.’

His heart froze. He started to speak but she continued, her eyes planted firmly on the ground. ‘The thing is… I forgave you for the drugs, and Janine, and everything else, a long time ago.’ She raised her eyes to his, smiling sadly. ‘I’ll always forgive you, but I can’t be friends with you.’ With a deep, trembling breath, she admitted softly, ‘I’m in love with you. And… and being around you and knowing I’ll never be _with_ you hurts too—mmmphh!’

Sherlock finally managed to unstick his frozen limbs after her admission and lunged forward, hauling her up against his chest and crushing his lips to hers. For several seconds, he held her stiff body close. Just as he was about to pull back in defeat, she let out a tiny whimper and completely relaxed in his arms.

Breaking away with panting breaths several moments later, Molly stared up at him in shocked awe. ‘W-was that a ‘goodbye’ kiss because you’re sorry for me or…’

‘That was definitely ‘hello.’’ He grinned and pressed his forehead to hers. ‘That was more than hello. That was ‘I love you, too.’’

‘Okay, good... good.’ Molly smiled in relief and pulled herself closer into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his neck. ‘But I may need a reminder now and then.’

He chuckled into her hair. ‘If I must.’


	6. Coffee, Plain and Simple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from the ever lovely sherlolly-is-jolly: an ordinary day in the lab

‘Molly, pass me the slides with the samples from the Callahan case.’

Molly glanced up from her microscope at the detective across from her. His face still buried in his own microscope, he held out a hand expectantly. She looked around for the slides in question and bit back a laugh when she located them.

‘By your elbow, Sherlock.’ She smirked and returned to her own slides.

Several moments passed in silence before Sherlock coughed expectantly. ‘Molly. Slides.’

‘Sherlock. Elbow.’ She retorted without looking up from the microscope.

She laughed when he huffed in frustration and scraped his stool back angrily. She heard him mumble something about her being unhelpful followed by the sound of glass slides being separated and placed onto the stage.

Adjusting the focus of her lens, she smiled at the man-child’s small show of temper.

They worked in silence for a time, the only sounds being the scratching of their pens as they took various notes and the occasional gasp or grunt of discovery.

As the hour grew late, Molly began to fidget. She glanced at the clock and noticed that they had been working for almost two hours without moving. Her shoulders ached from being hunched over and her eyes were gritty and sore from staring into the lens. Sherlock was still deeply entrenched in a multitude of slides, some from cases and others from his own experiments. She grinned at the focused furrow of his brow as he jotted a note in his book without tearing his eyes from the lens of his microscope.

Yawning, she rolled her shoulders back. With another three hours to go of her shift, she was going to need some serious caffeine to keep her awake.

Quietly, she slipped off the stool and out of the room. The canteen’s coffee was barely passable as a beverage, but with a little sugar, it was palatable. She filled two generous mugs with the swill and poured a dash of sugar into Sherlock’s and enough into hers to overcome to send her into a mini coma.

She returned to the lab and shouldered her way inside. The numerous slides surrounding Sherlock’s work area were clearly in some arrangement that made sense to him and she didn’t want to shove any aside and disturb it, so she poked his shoulder to get his attention.

He grunted and mumbled a distracted, ‘What?’

‘Coffee?’ She raised her eyebrows and held it out to him. As the smell permeated his senses, he straightened up and turned to her, glancing at the brimming cup she offered.

‘Black, two-?’

‘Two sugars,’ she chuckled with a nod. He took it from her and sniffed it experimentally.

Molly walked around the table to her own workspace and sipped her coffee, grimacing at the still bitter taste.

‘Canteen?’ Sherlock asked, a similar expression of distaste on his face.

‘Where else?’

They both shuddered as they took another sip.

‘Despite the horrid aftertaste and the significant lack of quality coffee beans,’ Sherlock sneered down at the cup. ‘Thank you.’

She smiled and hummed in acknowledgement.

They returned to their separate work, interspersing the silence with grimaces and shudders as they sipped their coffees.


	7. unless that someone is you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from a sweet Nonny: Hi there! If you're still taking prompts, how about while tailing a suspect, Sherlock and John follow him into a jazz lounge/bar where they get distracted by seeing Molly all dressed up, on the stage singing. Sherlock is surprised that he didn't deduce that Molly has some amazing pipes!

‘Really, how uncreative.’ Sherlock sneered as he and John stared up at the flickering sign that read  _The Jazz Lounge._ Their suspect was rumoured to do his underhanded business dealings in the club. Straightening the lapels of his suit, Sherlock went inside, John on his heels.

Candlelit and somewhat hazy, the club let off a distinct vintage atmosphere that Sherlock begrudgingly admitted was somewhat authentic. Most patrons were dressed in modern clothes, but several had adopted a more dated style. Tables were scattered about and there were very few empty chairs. A pianist was playing a rendition of a classic jazz song softly in the background. Spotting their mark alone at a small table in the corner, Sherlock pulled John to the bar and situated himself with a clear line of sight to the suspect, their backs to the stage.

‘What can I get ya boys?’ The bartender’s overdone American accent grated on Sherlock’s nerves.

Before he could unleash his scathing deductions, John interjected. ‘I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks.’

‘And for ya friend?’

Sherlock waved him off without breaking his eyes from their suspect.

‘Just water for him, thanks.’ John smiled apologetically and then turned to Sherlock. ‘Why was I dragged along if you’re just going to _watch_ him?’

‘Mary was complaining that you were going stir crazy. That, and she wanted some time with your spawn alone, so I agreed to babysit you for the night.’

‘Oi!’ John protested with a frown. ‘Now, that’s just… that’s just great. I’m not the one that needs babysitting, you great ponce.’ The bartender slid him his glass of whiskey and he immediately threw back half, shuddering as it burned his throat. Sherlock merely smirked in response.

Fifteen minutes passed and their suspect had yet to meet anyone. John was fidgeting impatiently and on his third whiskey.

Suddenly, the lighting changed and a man’s voice poured over the crowd as the pianist finished his latest piece. John turned to face the announcer, but Sherlock didn’t look away from the suspect.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I hope you’re enjoying your evening here at the Jazz Lounge.’ A smattering of applause followed the man’s introduction. ‘I have the great pleasure to present to you a surprise performance by a dear friend. Her usual work has kept her occupied for some time, but tonight, I convinced her to come back and sing one more song for you.’ Excited murmuring from the crown followed his announcement. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes still focused on the suspect. ‘Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, Miss Margaret May.’

Enthusiastic clapping followed the soft-spoken pronouncement. Beside him, John froze and gaped, his hands poised mid-clap. In his peripherals, Sherlock saw John’s eyes widen.

‘Don’t forget, Doctor Watson, you’re a married man. And your wife is quite handy with a firearm.’ Sherlock ribbed his friend and frowned when he elicited no reaction.

A bass began plucking a heavy beat followed by the gentle rhythmic swish of a cymbal. Just as the piano joined in, a rich, heady voice floated out over the crowd.

_“Love me or leave me and let me be lonely…”_

Sherlock froze. The voice sounded strangely familiar.

_“You won’t believe me, but I love you only…”_

The voice washed over him, bitter and laden with heartache.

_“I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody else…”_

He fought hard against the ridiculous urge to turn around. He narrowed his eyes on the suspect and focused on ignoring the yearning voice that poured over him, thick with emotion, plucking at his own heartstrings.

_“You might find the night time the right time for kissing…”_

Why would night time be the right time for kissing? He forced a scoff at the lyrics.

_“Night time is my time for just reminiscing…”_

She sounded truly sad. He was impressed by how much emotion the woman put into that line. No, no, he wasn’t impressed. He straightened in his seat and scolded himself. He was focused on the work. The suspect was still alone, but staring entrancingly at the performer. Sherlock frowned, a strange feeling in his chest, like someone was trying to take something of his from him.

_“Regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else… There’ll be no one unless that someone is you…”_

For some reason, the line felt like a promise. And it made him smile. He saw John in the corner of his eye steal a glance at him before turning his awed gaze back to the stage.

The woman continued to sing, each line, each word, more heartfelt than the one before. Sherlock forced his focus on the suspect, but her deep, rich voice kept pulling his attention, like a siren’s call.

The song was coming to the end when the suspect reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Sherlock watched as the man’s eyes narrowed in aggravation and he stood. Whomever he was supposed to meet had canceled. Sherlock bit back a curse. No point in following the man, he was intending to head home. They’d have to return another night.

A shudder ran down his spine as the woman drew out the final note with heartbreaking feeling. He clenched his fists, angry that some woman and her song could have such an effect on him. _He_ was in control of his transport. If he wanted to deal with his emotions, he’d do it on his own terms, with his violin. Turning around, he readied himself to deduce the singer and find something about her to negate the feelings that just her voice provoked in him.

The announcer had bounded onto the stage and pulled her into a hug, her face hidden from the audience. In those few seconds, Sherlock raked his gaze over her. The dim lighting made it hard to make out small details, but he estimated she was in her thirties, pale and slim; the simple, yet silky navy dress hugged her curves before flowing around her legs, creating the illusion of a river in the moonlight. As she pulled back, the warm light illuminated the slope of her neck and collarbone, a familiar pendant resting against her clavicle.

As his gaze traveled up, Sherlock’s eyes widened.

‘Molly,’ he breathed in surprise. Her normally pulled-back hair was unbound, cascading in natural waves and her make-up was subtle yet somewhat seductive in the muted light.

Beside him, John was caught somewhere between awe at their friend and laughter at the look of complete befuddlement on Sherlock’s face.

Her voice had been rich and profound and confident, but as she bowed sweetly to the audience, Sherlock could see the deep blush rising from somewhere on her chest to the apples of her cheeks.

He sat in stupefied silence as she made her way off the stage and another singer took her place. John turned around and frowned. ‘Where’s the suspect?’

‘He’s… he’s gone.’ Sherlock managed to unstick his tongue.

John, ever observant, realized that there was more to Sherlock’s befuddlement than just being caught off guard by the sweet pathologist. With a pat on his friend’s shoulder and enough cash on the counter to pay for his drinks, he stood to leave. ‘Well, mate. I’d better catch a cab and head home. I’ll see you later, yeah?’

Sherlock nodded distractedly, a frown covering his features as he delved into his thoughts.

John chuckled and left, knowing that a sober Sherlock would be able to make his way back to Baker Street on his own.

* * *

Shutting the door behind her, Molly sighed and toed off her heels, grateful to be home. Honestly, she wasn’t sure how Tony had convinced her to wear the darn things. She was thrilled when he asked her to do a special performance, but were the three inch heels really necessary? She groaned as she reached to unzip her dress.

‘Ahem.’

She jumped and shrieked at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Fumbling, she flicked on the light in her living room. Siting on her couch with his arms crossed over his chest, Sherlock Holmes glared at her.

‘Sherlock!’ She clutched at her chest and willed her heart to slow down. ‘What are you doing here?’

He stood and firmly straightened the front of his suit, ignoring her question. ‘You lied to me, Molly Hooper.’

Molly fumbled, still recovering from his sudden appearance. ‘I-I’ve never lied to you.’

He stepped closer and eyed her dress with a raised eyebrow. ‘Indeed.’

She shivered at his nearness. She stepped around him, lifting the hem of her dress before she tripped on it. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You, Doctor Hooper, have kept a secret from me for years.’ He turned and raised his eyebrows at her.

‘Keeping a secret is not the same as lying.’ She knew better than to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. The dress, the heels, the make-up. He was Sherlock Holmes. _Anderson_ could have figured out her secret given the same evidence.

Sherlock moved closer again. He towered over her, eyes dark. ‘Why did you not tell me, _Margaret May_?’

She blushed a deeper red at the husky way he said her stage name and looked away. ‘It was just a way for me to earn money at Uni. I’m not embarrassed by it, but it’s really… private. I’ve not gone back for years, it’s not a part of my life anymore. Until Tony called me up last week when the headliner asked for a night off.’

‘And you never could say no to a friend.’ His whisper held a double meaning that tugged on her heart. She nodded in agreement.

‘And it felt good.’ She smiled fondly. ‘I forgot what it was like to lose myself in a song, lyrics that hold so much meaning,’ her eyes flicked up at him briefly before she rushed on, ‘and the knowledge that I’m _good_ at something other than dissecting dead people.’

The words she sung earlier ran through his mind, his heart beating faster. She had been singing about him. _To_ him. No wonder he was so affected by the depth of feelings she put into the song.

As he stared at her, he realized it wasn’t just a song she had sung. Molly had played a melody on his heartstrings that opened his mind to the feelings he’d suppressed for years.

And now he stood at a precipice. He could step back, lock those emotions away once again, and they would fall back into their usual rapport. Professional, somewhat friendly, but nothing more.

Or he could take a step, one single step, and fall over the edge into something deep and unknown. Molly would never pressure him one way or another. She loved him and he had kept her living with a vague hope that he might reciprocate her feelings, though he never had any intention of doing so.

Until now.

Reaching out his hand, he slowly entwined his fingers with hers. Her breath hitched and he stepped closer until they were almost touching. Her eyes stared up at him, wide and wary and hopeful.

He lowered his head slowly. As he pressed his lips to hers, he stepped off the precipice. The doors in his Mind Palace that contained all the emotion he’d sealed away, were unlocked, ready to be explored as he tumbled over the edge. Molly reached a hand up and pulled him further down, her fingers sliding through the hair at the nape of his neck. She hummed happily, though she held herself a bit uncertainly.

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss until they were both starved for air.

Panting, Sherlock closed his eyes and buried his face in her hair. Without words of his own, he brushed his lips by her ear and softly sang, _“You won’t believe me, but I love you only…”_

Molly pulled back and stared up at him in shock. The vulnerable smile on his face eased her worried and she beamed up at him as she finally relaxed in his embrace.

With a cheeky wink, she pulled his head back down and mumbled against his lips.

_“You might find the night time the right time for kissing…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Love me or leave me" by Nina Simone


	8. Where It All Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from the delightful softsusurrations: I love your stories! Especially Molly and uni!lock! Are you able to write Molly and Sherlock's first meeting at uni (maybe in labs) and of course it goes wrong and ends in a sexual tension fuelled fight ☺️?

The giggling was getting completely out of hand. The couple on the sofa were utterly absorbed in each other they completely forgot there was a third party in the room. Molly groaned inwardly as Mary’s new boyfriend whispered something in her ear causing her to erupt in flirtatious giggles.

Honestly, a month into the relationship and the two blondes were practically joined at the hip. Molly was happy for Mary. She really was. The bubbly blonde had been her roommate since day one of Uni, luck of the lottery draw, and had immediately adopted Molly into her rather rag-tag family of friends. Boyfriends came and went, but their friendship became forged in iron, so to speak. And Molly was genuinely relieved that Mary had found a bloke who genuinely liked her, for all her bossy, flirtatious, know-it-all ways.

Yes, John seemed to be a rare subspecies of the male human. Having transferred from up north at the start of term, he was a bit of a teddy bear compared to Mary’s usual rough-and-tumble dates; less smolder and more charm. Molly had a hunch he was going to be around a while.

That is, if she didn’t kill them both for disrupting her studying.

A knock on the door finally pulled the two lovers apart.

‘That’d be my roommate,’ John sighed as he pressed his forehead to Mary’s. ‘Told him to meet me here when he finished heckling his brother’s guest lecture.’ He shoved up from the couch and put on his jacket while Mary watched with a disgustingly adoring look on her face. Molly would _never_ admit it aloud for fear of encouraging their smitten behaviour, but she secretly loved the way they seemed to be completely smitten with the other.

John opened the door and Molly’s heart nearly stopped. Dressed in a well-tailored suit with envious cheekbones and eyes like an exploding galaxy, John’s roommate was honestly the most intriguingly gorgeous boy she’d seen.

‘John.’ The boy clasped his hands behind his back and nodded a silent greeting to Mary. ‘Now that you have completed your duties as a… boyfriend,’ he visibly sneered at the word. ‘I need your assistance in the lab.’

John scoffed. ‘Assistance? You just want someone to fetch your mobile while you’re eyes deep in samples.’

Mary giggled behind him and he turned to pull her close for a more personal goodbye.

John’s roommate glanced around the room before his gaze landed on Molly sitting at her desk. His eyes pierced her and she swallowed nervously.

‘He-hello.’ She smiled.

‘Oh, sorry, Molly.’ John wrapped his arm around Mary’s waist and turned to their roommates. ‘Sherlock, this is Molly. Molly, my roommate and frequent pain in the arse, Sherlock Holmes.’

Molly waved timidly in greeting, but Sherlock only narrowed his eyes at her. Molly lowered her hand slowly as his gaze flew over her. When he finally spoke, she felt her face flush at the hauntingly deep baritone of his voice. Unfortunately, his words negated any initial attraction she felt.

‘Twenty-one, but with a sense of fashion that would offend a seven-year-old. Obviously, trying to compensate for the lack of mother figure in your life, which explains your inability to apply make-up properly, as well. Could account for your lack of romantic partner, as well. Self-conscious, nail-biter, people-pleaser…’

‘Oi, shove off!’ Mary had pulled herself away from John and stepped in front of a mortified Molly, her hands on her hips as she glared at the taller man.

‘Sherlock, mate, it’s time to go. So sorry, Molly.’ John yanked his friend out the door, sending Molly a clearly practiced grimace of apology. The door slammed behind them and they could hear John dressing down his roommate with a wearisome tone, their voices fading as they walked away.

‘Well,’ Molly choked out, trying to smooth over her humiliation. She shot Mary a small smile. ‘Glad you chose the nice one.’ With numb practice, she pushed back her tears and turned the page of her textbook. ‘At least now, I’ll be able to get some studying done.’

She felt Mary staring at her, the pity almost tangible, as she pretended to read. Eventually, she heard Mary walk into the small kitchenette and fill the kettle. She swallowed the lump in her throat and picked up her pen. Sherlock Holmes was like any other bloke. He looked at her and only saw the surface, disregarding her without even getting to know her.

 _Too bad,_ she thought forlornly. _He was quite brilliant._

* * *

Over the course of the next few years, Molly and Sherlock had several brief encounters. It was nearly impossible to avoid the other when their best friends were in a relationship. But Sherlock refused to exchange more than a ‘hello’ with her, his sharp gaze raking over her with derision every time.

Being a chemistry major, Molly had expected to see Sherlock around the science wing, possibly in a class with her. But the only time she saw him on campus was when he burst out of a lab, an angry professor on his heels, shouting at him about proper etiquette and not blowing up chemicals for fun.

In spite of his scorn and social ineptitude, Molly felt herself becoming drawn to the distant man, his brilliance and completely inappropriate use of lab equipment surprisingly charmed her. Little by little, her hurt at his obvious disdain melted. She recognized his sharp tongue as a defense mechanism from forming attachments and getting hurt himself. It took her a while to understand, but about a year after their introduction, she realized that she was falling for the overbearing git.

And she hated herself for it.

* * *

One late night, almost two years after they met, found Molly in the student pathology lab. As a graduate assistant now, she was allowed unsupervised time in the laboratory to work on her research. And she took full advantage of that. Especially at night, now that John and Mary had taken to their small flat for privacy in order to avoid Sherlock.

It was getting close to midnight and Molly’s eyes were starting to ache as she switched out the slide on the microscope stage. The small lamp by her corner workspace afforded her enough light to work by without drowning her in fluorescent light. Not to mention all the slides and pipettes she needed were in easy reach in the cabinets above her head.

 _Just a few more minutes, then I’ll leave._ She promised herself.

She was jotting down a few notes when the lab door opened and the overhead lights flicked on. She jumped in surprise and winced at the blinding light, inadvertently crying out. ‘Oi!’

‘Molly?’

The familiar baritone caught her attention and she blinked madly trying to adapt to the sudden lighting change. Her eyes finally adjusted and she looked over her microscope to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, his hand still hovering over the light switch.

‘What are you doing?’ Her heart was thundering madly from adrenaline. He stared at her in shock, his mouth gaping in surprise, something she’d never thought she’d see. She briefly wished for a camera to document the great Sherlock Holmes’ flummoxed. And by her, no less.

‘Sherlock?’ She frowned as he continued to stare.

He blinked, shaking himself from his stupor and adopting his usual haughty façade once more. ‘Molly. I… apologize for intruding.’ He clasped his hands behind his trademark coat, a Belstaff that probably cost an entire term’s tuition.

Molly raised her eyebrows. On one hand, he apologized, something John said he never did. On the _other_ hand, his tone was the very opposite of apologetic.

She mentally shrugged. _I’ll take it anyway._

‘What are you doing here?’ She repeated, sitting up straight and suddenly very aware of her appearance. She’d been wearing her clothes since 7 that morning, her hair was in a sloppy bun atop her head and she _knew_ there were marks around her eyes from staring into the microscope lens for hours.

He stepped closer, allowing the door to close behind him. ‘I was unaware the lab was occupied. I was bored and intended to conduct some experiments to pass the time.’

‘Don’t you use the chemistry lab on the third floor?’ Molly bit her lip and blushed as his attention never wavered from her.

‘Yes,’ he responded as he skirted the first row of tables. ‘Unfortunately, Professor Higgins has reached the end of his proverbial rope and threatened to expel me should I step foot in his lab again.’

‘So, the path labs were next on your list?’

‘Indeed.’ He shrugged off his coat and unceremoniously dumped it on top of hers. His hands in his pockets, he sauntered over to her, clearly past the surprise of seeing her alone in the lab at half past eleven at night. Molly, however, was quickly moving from the surprise stage to the ‘dear-God-he’s-gorgeous-and-staring-at-me’ stage.  She hadn’t exchanged more than ten words with him over two years, and he always looked at her with indifference, but she couldn’t help that her heart toppled over every time his name came up or she saw him genuinely laughing even if it was the time she had fallen into the courtyard fountain. And now he was standing less than twenty centimeters from her side and all she could hear was her pounding heartbeat.

‘I was just finishing up,’ she explained as his eyes roved over her workspace. Her journals were dog-eared and well-worn, samples and slides covered nearly every available space, and she had left her vials near the sink to be washed up.

‘You’re studying the decomposition of the eye?’ He queried.

Molly followed his gaze to the open journal page. ‘In layman’s terms, yes. It’s part of my doctoral research project.’

‘Most girls are not interested in looking at pictures of a decaying body, much less studying it so intensely.’ He snorted in derision.

Slapping her journal closed, Molly flushed angrily. ‘I’m not most girls.’

‘No,’ he smirked as he took in her wrinkled clothes, baggy and covered in chemical stains. ‘No, you’re definitely not.’

Humiliated, Molly felt her anger rise. ‘Well, I’m sorry if I fall short of your standards for women, Mister Holmes. But quite frankly, I don’t give a flying fig!’

‘Mmm,’ he hummed noncommittally as he slid his finger across the edge of a slide. She twitched in growing agitation as he sneered and reopened her journal. ‘A bit simple for a doctoral thesis, isn’t it?’

Sherlock, wisely, took a step back as Molly jumped up from her seat. The late hour, the stress of work and school, the strain of caring for a man who never gave her the time of day, boiled over and she jabbed a finger under Sherlock’s nose. She crowded him as her voice grew louder.

'You… you arrogant arse! You think you're so brilliant and you look down on  _everyone_ like you're God's gift to the world!' Her arms flailed as she gestured madly. 'You don't care about anyone else's feelings, so long as you get your way.  _God,_  I hate myself so  _much_  for falling for you!' So caught up in her rant, Molly missed the way Sherlock's eyes widened at her admission. 'Why on  _Earth_  John chooses to put up with you I'll ne-mmphfff!'

Sherlock’s hand shot out and covered her mouth. She glared at him for cutting her off and shoved his hand away. ‘What?’ She spat, self-consciously rubbing her tingling lips.

He tilted his head and stared at her, his gaze moving across her face and down her body. But instead of the usual disdain in his eyes, his gaze felt softer and less invasive. Molly crossed her arms over her chest trying to appear angry in her self-consciousness.

‘Well?’ She raised an eyebrow when he still hadn’t said anything. His curls were tousled over his forehead and she resisted the urge to brush them back.

A slow smirk spread across his face as he clearly deduced what she was thinking. Before she had time to even blush, he stepped into her personal space and smiled softly down at her.

‘Would you like to grab coffee with me?’

* * *

No one understood why Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes were together. One day they were nearly strangers and the next they were inseparable. Her meekness and his arrogance, her mousey personality and his command of a room, seemed too different to be compatible. But they were.

John and Mary liked to claim responsibility for their best friends falling in love. But the consequences were unfortunate: walking in on a serious snog-fest, listening to them discuss the effects of decomposition on bodily fluids and extremities, and, God save them all, the fights. If there was one thing Sherlock loved almost as much as kissing Molly, it was riling her up until she was red in the face, spouting out deductions about him.

Because shutting her up with a blistering kiss was his favourite part of the fight.


	9. Phone Lines and Lies Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt from the delightful buttercup59: Oh goodness, can I just say how much I love your Sherlolly fics. Anyway, if you're still taking prompts, I would love to see a Pillow Talk AU, Sherlock and Molly taking on the roles played by Rock Hudson and Doris Day. Thanks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit tricky to do in modern times so I didn't try. Pillow Talk AU where Molly and Sherlock don’t know each other, but share a party line.

‘He’s absolutely insufferable!’

Mary rolled her eyes, but nodded her head in pretend sympathy as her friend ranted. They were sitting in the Watson’s kitchen having tea while Mary’s husband was out, something they started doing when they met at the teaching hospital less than a month previous.

‘Heaven forbid something happen to me and I can’t call for help!’

‘Molly, don’t you think you’re being a  _bit_ overdramatic?’ Mary interjected.

Molly huffed and crossed her arms. ‘No, I do not.’

‘It’s just a phone line.’

‘No, it’s a party line. And I got stuck sharing it with the world’s only Consulting Detective!’

Mary choked on her tea. ‘Oh, my god!’

‘What?’

Mary waved it off. ‘Nothing, sorry, just thought of something.’

Molly continued on as though there had been no interruption. ‘Anyway, it’s bad enough I have to share a line at all. But he’s on it constantly, deducing the other side to tears or shouting or… or whatever!’

‘Have you asked the phone company for a private line?’

‘I’m on the list. They say the earliest I can get one is six months. Can you believe it? Six months listening to that great ponce go on and on, spouting out his brilliance until it makes me want to gag.’

Mary simply smiled into her tea.

* * *

That evening, as Mary stood over the stove, with her husband reading the paper at the table, she decided to casually bring up her conversation with Molly.

‘I hear the phone company is starting to roll out private lines.’

John hummed in acknowledgement, turning the paper. ‘Good. That will hopefully end Sherlock’s incessant griping about the other half of his party line.’

She laughed lightly. ‘Molly had the same complaint this morning.’

‘Is that so?’

He was clearly not paying much attention. Mary quirked an eyebrow. ‘The other side of hers is a shallow, narcissistic man with little regard for human emotion.’

‘Really?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘Well,’ John murmured and crossed his legs. ‘Sherlock claims the other side of his is a childish, whiny woman who has nothing better to do than gripe at him for using the line.’

Mary bit her lip hard to keep from laughing. Several minutes passed as she stirred the sauce. Suddenly, she heard him fist the paper. She imagined he had a spectacularly surprised look on his face. Innocently, she turned around and smiled.

‘Something wrong, dear?’

He stared at her, his mouth doing a wonderful impression of a fish. ‘Molly… and Sherlock… they’re…’

She sauntered over and patted his hand like a child. ‘Yep.’

‘Right.’ He frowned in thought. ‘Should we tell them?’

‘Well, I was thinking-’

‘Never a good sign,’ John interjected.

She frowned and bopped him fondly on the head. ‘As I was saying, I was thinking we  _should_  introduce them. It’s about time, anyway, that my best friend meets yours.’

‘And have them kill each other?’ He asked incredulously. ‘Why not make it easier and just wait for one of Sherlock’s clients to do him in?’

‘Please, love? I’ve been wanting to get them together for a while, Molly’s interested in all the quirky, socially unacceptable things Sherlock is. And he needs someone to rein him in once in a while, but keeps him on his toes intellectually. As far as we know, they don’t know the other’s first name. So they’ll get to know each other over a meal, discover they have many interests in common, and be too smitten with the other that when the phone line issue is inevitably discovered, it won’t make a difference!’

He sighed and thought for a minute. ‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?’

She nodded eagerly.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he groaned. ‘If something goes wrong and it all goes to pits, I’ll put all the blame on you, you know.’

Bending down and kissing him firmly on the lips, she smirked. ‘I know. But when have I ever been wrong?’

John grumbled and returned to his paper as Mary turned back to the stove. ‘I sometimes envy Sherlock’s bachelorhood.’

‘I heard that.’

* * *

That Saturday, Molly and Mary sat in a booth at a quaint café, waiting for John and his friend while cradling cups of coffee. ‘He’s really quite the catch. Looks, wealth, intelligent.’

‘Mary, please stop trying to sell him to me before I’ve even met him!’ Molly pleaded in exasperation. She was really uncomfortable doing this, but Mary had pulled out all the stops: puppy eyes, begging, blackmail, threats, and her greatest weapon of all, John. One word about how his mate was an ideal fit for her and she caved. If anyone was a good judge of character, it was John Watson.

‘They’ll be here soon.’ Mary glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Nervous?’

‘I’m about to meet a stranger and go on a double date with him and my best friends. What’s there to be nervous about?’ Molly deadpanned, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles from her front. She had worn her best dress, a yellow sheath that never failed to lift her spirits. Her hair was pulled up in a simple updo and she wore minimal makeup, just enough to warm her usually pale features.

‘You look fine,’ Mary affirmed. She perked up as she glanced over Molly’s shoulder to the door. ‘And they’re here!’ The two stood and Molly turned to meet her date.

Her heart, already pounding in nervousness, beat triple time as she stared at the man walking in with John. Taller than average, he had black curls that fell boyishly over his forehead, his sculpted cheekbones and cupid’s bow lips, while unconventional, were strangely attractive on his face. But his most arresting feature was his eyes, they were sharp and shone with a weary brilliance, their colors shifting in the light.

Molly shifted nervously as the two men stopped in front of them.

‘Molly, this is my friend, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Molly.’ John waved a hand between them in introduction.

Sherlock simply nodded and accepted Molly’s timid handshake, staring at her intently. He seemed somewhat familiar, but Molly struggled to place him.

The four sat down, Molly next to Sherlock and their friends on the other side.

‘Molly is a medical assistant at St. Bart’s teaching hospital,’ Mary gushed as John and Sherlock waved the waitress over for coffee. Molly flushed deep red as her friend carried on. ‘I’m surprised the two of you haven’t met yet, what with you being there so often, Sherlock.’

_Ah_. ‘Actually, I have seen him around.’ Molly turned to him. ‘Though we’ve never been introduced.’

Something indeterminable flashed across Sherlock’s face before he schooled his features into a careful mask and nodded.

When he said nothing, Molly turned back to her coffee and bit her lip. This wasn’t going well at all. The man hadn’t spoken so much as a ‘hello.’ She resisted the urge to groan at the thought of sitting for an entire date with someone who clearly wasn’t interested.

‘Sherlock works for Scotland Yard,’ John offered with an encouraging smile. ‘He’s a con-’

Sherlock briskly cut him off. ‘A consultant. I work in the accounting department.’ 

Molly blinked in surprise at the rush of words, but smiled kindly nonetheless. She didn’t notice John and Mary exchange raised eyebrows.

* * *

Sherlock forced himself not to grimace. He had immediately recognized Molly as an employee at Bart’s, had even seen the results of her work. She was brilliant, but her potential hindered by the pitiful excuse of her gender being so-called inferior. He had been working up the courage to approach her, but his logical mind always got in the way, reminding him that sentiment is a weakness.

Then when John mentioned his wife was good friends with the sweet nurse from the lab, he knew it was only a matter of time before they were introduced and his hand would be forced. This set-up was exactly what he had been hoping for.

But then Molly spoke. And he cursed whatever God sat in the sky, watching this fiasco with a smile on His face.

Of course it was her. Miss Hooper. The other side of his party line, he immediately recognized her voice. The woman who gave it as good as she got, with a fiery indignation on behalf of whichever client he’d inadvertently insulted. He inwardly grimaced at all the cruel deductions he had spewed at her in retaliation: pathetic, spinster, busybody, spineless… and so many others.

‘Sherlock works for Scotland Yard.’ Sherlock’s eyes widened as John was about to lead him to the slaughter. ‘He’s a con-’

‘A consultant,’ he interjected quickly, forcing his voice several tones higher and adopting a slight northern accent. ‘I work in the accounting department.’

He tried not to scowl at the look John and Mary shared at the obvious disguising of his voice.  

Molly smiled. ‘So what brings you to Bart’s so often?’

‘Errand boy,’ he fibbed with a small shrug. ‘Gets pretty boring sitting and calculating time cards, so I volunteer to run paperwork between the departments.’

‘How interesting.’

Sherlock fought back a laugh at the subtly-forced politeness in her tone. She clearly was not interested in the pathetic life of a dull office boy with nothing better to do than be at the beck and call of his superiors. But she was kind enough to smile at him in encouragement.

She was as sweet as he thought and pretty in a plainspoken way. Unlike his previous paramour, Irene, Molly’s beauty was subtle and in the details. The way her cheeks blushed in appreciation at his attention, her eyes alight with kindness, and the ready smile she gave freely.

His brother’s voice sounded in his mind about the detriments of sentiment. And not for the first time, Sherlock discounted Mycroft’s advice. He… liked Molly Hooper.

And perhaps… just perhaps… he could win her over as Sherlock before she found out he was Mister Holmes. It sounded ridiculous and it was likely to blow up in his face, but as he saw the kindness and intelligence in her eyes, he decided it was worth the risk.  

He reached over and covered her hand.

‘That’s kind of you to say, but it’s awfully dull, to be honest. I’d rather hear about your work. Is it true you’re as brilliant as John and Mary say you are?’

John snorted into his coffee. Sherlock glared at him in reproach before turning a smile on the woman beside him. Her cheeks were rosy from his flirtations and she averted her eyes shyly under his gaze.

_It may be easier to win her over than I thought._

....to be continued


	10. Cinderella

_She spins and she sways to whatever song plays… without a care in the world_

_And I’m sitting here wearing the weight of the world on my shoulders_

* * *

‘Keep your head up, sweetheart.’

Molly struggled to obey without tripping. Her feet seemed to go off on their own when she wasn’t staring at them in concentration. She flicked her gaze up and overcompensated her footing, stumbling into her father.

‘Molly,’ Papa laughed quietly and stepped back. He bent down slightly to her eye level, not quite ready to admit that his little girl was now a young lady in her teenage years. ‘You have to trust me.’

She bit her lip and nodded, placing her hand back in his and lifting her eyes to his. The same brown eyes she saw in the mirror stared down at her. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he smiled, something he hadn’t been doing so much lately.

He pulled gently at her waist, guiding her to follow his leading as they slowly began the basic waltz steps. Every time Molly’s eyes drifted down to her feet, Papa would clear his throat and her gaze would immediately shoot back up. Pretty soon, the urge to look down faded as she found the rhythm, confident that her father would guide her.

‘I’m doing it! I’m dancing!’ She cried out happily.

‘Yes, you are,’ he laughed in reply. With a wink, he suddenly twirled her out.  Molly gasped in surprise, but trusted him completely and flung her free hand around in dramatic flair before letting him twirl her back in.

‘That’s my girl,’ Papa kissed her temple as he pulled her close, guiding them around the small living room. She basked in his proud smile and rested her head against his chest.

Standing at the foot of his grave three months later, she vowed to never dance again.

* * *

_So I will dance with Cinderella… while she is here in my arms_

* * *

‘Will the bridal party please join Mr and Mrs Watson on the dance floor?’

The music had shifted from an oldies tune to a classic waltz tempo and Molly’s eyes widened at the DJ’s announcement. She watched in horrified silence as Sherlock, her boyfriend of two months and John’s best man, moved through the watching crowd toward her. She clenched her jaw. As Mary’s maid of honor, here was no way to get out of it without causing a fuss.

‘Molly?’

She closed her eyes at Sherlock’s concerned voice somewhere above her and gingerly placed her hand in his, letting him lead her onto the dance floor. She kept her head down as they began moving to a gentle waltz. The familiar steps tore at her heart and, before she could stop it, a tear fell down her cheek. She took a trembling breath as more tears filled her eyes.

Sherlock pulled back slightly and let go of her waist to tilt her chin up, his brow furrowed in question. Knowing that trying to hide her sadness would be futile, she sniffled and tried to smile apologetically, but her lips trembled tellingly. His eyes softened in realization.

‘Your father.’

She nodded, a fresh wave of tears filling her eyes.

With tender care, he brushed the trail of tears from her cheeks and then pulled her close, abandoning the proper waltz form to offer her comfort. She pressed her cheek against his chest, uncaring of the watching audience, and let his heartbeat calm her as he guided her around the dance floor. He began to hum the melody, the calming rumble washing over her.

Slowly, her tears faded and she felt the broken piece of her heart begin to heal.

* * *

_Oh, I will dance with Cinderella… I don’t want to miss even one song  
_

* * *

‘Keep your head up, sweetheart.’

She frowned up at Sherlock and her brown eyes narrowed. ‘But if I don’t watch them, who knows what my feet will do!’

Laughing in exasperation, Sherlock tilted her chin up and bopped her on the nose. ‘Just trust me, Georgina.’

The ten-year-old rubbed her nose vigorously and sighed. ‘Okay.’ She placed her hand back in his and he started guiding her around the room again. Every so often her gaze would drop and Sherlock would not-so-subtly remind her to look up by clearing his throat.

Molly leaned against the doorframe and watched her husband and daughter as Georgina began to get the steps right, confidence growing as her father guided her around the room. Molly felt her heart ache at the memory of her father teaching her in the same way.

But when she saw the look of complete adoration on Georgina’s face as she gazed up at Sherlock, the ache faded as love and contentment washed over her.

Sherlock glanced up and caught her gaze, an understanding smile on his face. He released Georgina with a flourish and bowed gallantly. She raced from the room as Sherlock held out a hand to his wife. Molly laughed as she placed her hand in his and he immediately pulled her against him.

'May I have this dance?' He whispered.

She traced her free hand along his arm and twined her fingers through his. ‘You may.’

He lifted their joined hands to his lips and pressed tender kiss to her fingers before falling into the steps of the waltz, guiding them easily in a dance they now knew by heart. 

* * *

_'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Cinderella' by Steven Curtis Chapman


	11. Quite Different Tastes in Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Sherlock and Molly singing 'Highway to Hell' by ACDC at the top of their lungs whilst in the car on a motorway...

‘No, no, no!’ Sherlock shouted, jerking Molly from her light slumber in the passenger seat.

Her heart raced and she gripped the safety handle with white-knuckled terror, prepared to meet her Maker.  ‘What? Oh, God, what?’

He grumbled and waved a hand in disgust at the radio, which was currently on a classical station. ‘That’s not the proper tempo for this piece! _Adagio_ … not Larghetto. Good Lord, does no one understand the importance of maintaining authenticity in performance?’

Her hand over her racing heart, Molly took several deep, calming breaths. Everything in her screamed to smack the Consulting Driver and she _barely_ managed to tamp down her rage. ‘For the love of triple murders, Sherlock, don’t scare me like that!’

He merely quirked an eyebrow in acknowledgement before sneering once more at the music coming from the radio. Molly shifted into a less defensive position and glanced at the clock on the dash. They still had another three hours to go of their five-hour drive to the country for a case and it wasn’t yet 8 in the morning. Her head lolled back in frustration.

Sherlock scoffed in derision at another segment and, having had enough, Molly reached over and flipped the stations.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m changing the station, Sherlock, before I end up tossing you from the car.’

He furrowed his brow. ‘Considering the great difference in our strengths, I find it hard to believe you would be able to overpower me at all, let alone in an enclosed space.’

Molly rolled her eyes as she continued searching through stations. ‘It was just an expression, oh great Detective.’

‘Ah.’

She grinned as she flipped to a station and the opening strands of AC/DC’s _Highway to Hell_ poured from the speakers.

‘What is this monstrosity?’ Sherlock’s eyes were wide in horrified bewilderment.

‘It’s called ‘hard rock,’ Mister Consulting Musical Snob.’

He sniffed at the insult.

Within the first few lines of the song, Molly was singing along loudly, out-of-tune, and uncaring that Sherlock was grimacing at her volume and wrong notes.

_Hey mumma…Look at me…I'm on the way to the promised land. I’m on the highway to Hell!_

By the third round of the repetitive lyrics, Molly had turned to stare pleadingly up at Sherlock, who was doing his very best to pretend her couldn’t see her in the corner of his eyes.

‘C’mon, Sherlock,’ she said breathlessly and turned up the speaker volume. She smiled sweetly up at him. She knew that, by now, Sherlock had memorized the melody and the basic lyrics. ‘Please?’

It was the please that _nearly_ did him in. But he bit his lip hard and she gave up, returning to her caterwauling.

_On the highway to Hell! Highway to Hell! I'm on the highway to Hell!_

Molly wasn’t singing anymore so much as yelling the words over and over. Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have shut off the radio, pulled over to the side of the motorway, and pushed them from the car for making him sit through even one bar of the song.

But the happiness on her face as she was utterly uninhibited, her eyes screwed shut in exertion as she screamed along to the radio was worth suffering through her tone-deaf sing-along.

The song eventually came to an end and Molly switched off the radio, breathing heavily.

She giggled as she saw the look of utter relief on Sherlock’s face. ‘Maybe next time we should listen to something less… hellish.’

He turned his head with a grateful smile. ‘Please.’


	12. Of Childhood Forts and Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Sherlock and Molly having a secret fort as children and have special memories there- their first kiss and his proposal to her...

**2001**

Sherlock glanced behind him as he ran. ‘Hurry up, Molly!’

Pig-tails flying behind her, Molly raced across the yard trying to catch up. A fuming Mycroft was bearing down on them, pieces of Mummy’s cake falling from his cheeks and forehead as he shouted threats at the two 11-year-olds.

The edge of the forest was overgrown and Sherlock braced himself as he plunged into the brush, scrambling over roots, Molly close behind. They wove around trees and through the underbrush, panting in adrenaline-induced fear. Despite his advantage in age and height, Mycroft’s significant girth impeded his pursuit into the woods. With one last promise of revenge, he stalked back to the house.

Molly and Sherlock slowed down, but didn’t stop walking until they reached the foot of a large tree. He jumped up and grasped the closest branch to the ground and hauled himself up in a flurry of kicks. He continued to climb until he reached a make-shift platform made from mismatched boards. Molly waited for him to lower the rope ladder before joining him in the small fort.

One look at the other, and they collapsed into raucous laughter.

‘Did you see his face?’ Molly sputtered.

‘A waste of perfectly good cake, but worth it!’

‘Won’t your mum be angry?’

Sherlock shrugged and smirked. ‘Still worth it.’

Exhausted from the adrenaline crash, they laid down on their backs, staring up through the branches and leaves. Pieces of blue sky peeked through the canopy, Molly’s silent presence calming Sherlock’s usual racing mind.

‘Are you really going away?’ Molly whispered sadly, breaking the moment.

Sherlock’s face dropped as he turned his head to look at her. She was biting her lip as she stared intently at the sky, her eyes shiny with tears. He felt sick. When Redbeard had died last year, he hadn’t wanted another friend. He didn’t want to be left again. But then Molly had moved nearby with her mum and, before he knew it, they were best friends. She didn’t mind that he was sometimes mean to her, even if he didn’t intend to be. She liked that he was interested in science and mysteries and pirates. She liked him for all the things he thought were wrong with him.

And now _he_ was the one leaving.

‘Yeah,’ he breathed, wishing with all his heart that he wasn’t.

‘Promise me something?’ She finally turned to look at him, a tear escaping and falling into her hair.

He nodded.

‘Don’t forget me.’

He smiled. ‘Promise.’

* * *

**2009**

‘Congratulations.’

Sherlock flinched and slowly turned. The voice was familiar, deeper and richer than he remembered but unmistakable. Molly had grown since he left for St. Paul’s, her pig-tails traded for a simple braid that fell over her shoulder, jumper and ratty jeans replaced with a brightly patterned blouse and trousers. But her brown eyes and ready smile were the same.

‘Molly,’ he smiled briefly before letting his face fall back into its usual mask of disinterest. He should have known his parents would invite his childhood friend to his homecoming dinner party.

She cradled the cup of punch in her hand. ‘I… I hear you’re heading to Oxford.’

‘You heard right.’

She swallowed nervously and toyed with the end of her braid. He braced himself against the desire to make her laugh like old times, to see her eyes light up with the smile she once only had for him. But he left those days behind him. Sentiment was a chemical defect and Molly was the catalyst to his defect. They had exchanged letters for the first few years he was gone and spent much of their Christmas and summer holidays together. But as he grew older, he realized he was becoming dependent on her emotionally. And that wouldn’t do.

He hadn’t seen or heard from her since he cut off contact five years previously.

And here she stood before him and all those feelings he thought he’d deleted came rushing back.

Molly’s lips twisted in a pained smile at his silence.

‘Well, it was good to see you again, Sherlock,’ she said with false brightness and turned away quickly, but not before Sherlock saw the tears filling her eyes. He watched as she said goodbye to his parents, mumbling some excuse to leave before the actual meal, and left without a backward glance.

He felt suddenly empty inside. People passed by and clapped him on the shoulder, trying to lure him into conversation. He shrugged them away. He needed to be alone to think. Grabbing his coat, he slipped out the back door with a torch to fend off the encroaching night and slowly made his way to the woods. It had been years since he’d visited the makeshift fort, but it was the only place he could be guaranteed solitude.

He reached the base of the tree and, with the torch tucked under his chin, he easily pulled himself up the first few branches. As he grabbed hold of the bottom of the platform, he suddenly heard a faint sniffle and froze.

‘Molly?’

A startled gasp broke the night’s silence and he heard the sound of someone shifting on the boards above him. He grunted and pulled himself up into the fort.

‘Molly, I know you’re there.’ He pointed the torch around the corners until it illuminated a small figure curled around her knees.

‘Go away,’ she sniffled.

He felt his gut clench at the sadness in her voice, thick with tears. ‘Molly, I-’

‘Just go. Go and forget me. You’re good at that,’ she laughed bitterly, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

He stood in hesitation. His mind shouted at him that she was right, he needed to leave. He needed to forget her so he could focus on becoming a detective. But his heart, shackled and dusty from disuse, quietly protested leaving her.

Slowly, he walked over to her, still uncertain. He knelt beside her and placed the torch on the worn floorboards.

Molly buried her head deeper into her knees. ‘Please go,’ she sobbed.

‘No,’ he said without hesitation and twisted to sit beside her. She resisted as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, before eventually giving in and letting him pull her into his side as she cried. Slowly, her arms loosened from her knees and crept around his waist. Her cries faded into sniffles and then disappeared entirely. But neither let the other go.

Closing his eyes, he turned his head and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, burying his face in her hair. Her breath hitched and she stiffened.

‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed.

Several beats passed before Molly sighed and relaxed in his embrace. ‘It’s a start.’

* * *

**2015**

‘Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing?’ Molly shrieked as her boyfriend threw her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took off across the yard.

‘Be back in time for dinner, you two!’ His parents’ laughter faded as he ran further from the patio. He had been impatient and curt all day, but this took the cake. It wasn’t often they saw Mummy and Daddy Holmes. Sherlock usually avoided driving out to the country and insisted they come to the city for visits. But two days ago, she had arrived home from work and found him placing two suitcases in the boot of a rented car, declaring they were going on a short holiday.

‘I was in the middle of a conversation with your father,’ Molly huffed to his very delightful derriere as he slowed to a walk. ‘That was very rude. Now, will you please put me down! I am not a sack of potatoes.’

Sherlock flipped her into his arms and set her on her feet with a pacifying kiss. ‘I have been _trying_ to get you away from them for almost two days now. _You_ forced me to take such drastic measures.’

‘Then why are we here, if not to see them?’ Molly threw her hands up in the air, frustrated with her ridiculous Consulting Detective.

‘Don’t you recognize where we are?’ He smirked. Molly glanced around. They were surrounded by trees and brush. She stepped around him, brow furrowed as she saw a familiar tree. Her eyes traveled up the peeling bark.

‘The fort!’ She cried out in delight. ‘It’s still here?’

Sherlock smiled and nodded. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on it over the years, replacing a rotting board here and there. But other than that, it’s the very same.’

She glanced back at him with a mischievous gleam in her eye before launching herself at the bottom branch and quickly climbing up the tree and hauling herself into the nostalgic fort. Sherlock followed moments later.

‘It’s smaller than I remember,’ Molly commented as she looked around.

‘ _We_ were smaller back then, Miss Hooper.’

She wrinkled her nose at him. Yanking his arm, she pulled him down until they were laying side by side and staring up through the canopy of leaves.  

‘I didn’t realize how much I missed this place,’ Molly whispered.

He reached for her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. She turned her head and smiled at him. He pressed a kiss to her lips before they returned their gazes to the sky.

‘Molly?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Are you happy?’

She sighed dreamily. ‘Immensely, my love.’

He took a deep breath and reached his free hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the small, velvet box he had retrieved from his mother the day before.

‘Years ago, I made you a promise. I broke that promise and I nearly lost you.’

Molly rolled onto her side, propping herself up on her arm, and looked down at him in concern. ‘Sherlock? What’s this all about?’

‘I won’t say it all the time, I _am_ British, after all, and quite emotionally challenged as my Mother so eloquently put it. But I do love you, Molly Hooper.’

Her eyes softened in relief. ‘And I love you, too.’ She smiled and kissed him gently.

Sherlock swallowed nervously as she drew away and slowly pulled out the box from his pocket and held it in between them. Molly’s eyes widened.

‘Sherlock…’ Her breathing quickened and she stared down at him in wonder. He popped it open, knowing the vintage setting of his grandmother’s betrothal ring, was perfect for her.

‘This isn’t a promise, Molly. Promises are too readily said and too easily broken. This is a vow. This is me, offering my future to you. I want to share it with you and, if you want that, too, I vow to never forget you again. I vow to spend the rest of my life making sure you know just how important you are to me. Marry me?’

For two heartbeats, Molly stared down at him in tearful astonishment. Then she suddenly snapped out of her shock and hauled him up by the lapels to snog the breath from him. He scrambled to hold her without dropping the ring box, thoroughly enjoying her taking charge of the kiss.

Panting and grinning madly, she pulled away and braced her forehead against his.

‘Is that a-a yes?’ Sherlock fought for breath.

Molly nodded vigorously and held out her hand. He slipped the ring on her finger, a perfect fit, and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles. She wiped a few stray tears from her cheeks and giggled happily. Sherlock tugged her back down and tucked her into his side.

‘Your parents were in on this, weren’t they?’

‘Ye _p_.’ 


	13. The Doctor's Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the delightful spinning-blue-box: Sherlock catches a cold and because John is away on holidays, Molly goes to 221B to bring Sherlock hot tea and blankets. She ends up staying overnight making sure that Sherlock is taken care of. *cue sherolly cuteness!*. The next day, John come back home from his holiday and is very surprised at what he sees. *cue even more sherolly cuteness!!*

‘Djohn-d. Djohn-d!’

Collapsing into a coughing fit, Sherlock curled further into the couch. His dressing gown was tangled around him, but afforded him no warmth. The chill of winter was seeping in through the drafty flat and he shivered violently.

His nose was simultaneously runny and stuffy, his MindPalace had been reduced to a muggy haze, and there wasn’t a bone in his bodythat didn’t ache at the slightest movement. Despite his discomfort, he fell into a fitful slumber, mumbling John’s name in the vain hope his former flatmate would magically appear.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, he awoke to the sound of a crackling fire. His head was pounding and he barely registered that there was a heavy weight over his body that had warmed him up significantly. Shifting around, he blinked blearily at the changes in the room. In addition to the fire and the thick comforter covered in white and yellow flowers that he was currently buried under, several Tesco bags were stacked on the coffee table and a stack of blankets.

‘-lo?’ He called out, wincing at the volume of his own voice.

Soft footsteps from the kitchen preceded the appearance of Molly Hooper, a tray in her arms.

‘Hey, Sherlock,’ she smiled gently and walked over to him. She set the tray beside the blankets and from one of the bags, pulled out a thermometer. Sherlock stared at her in illness-induced surprise.

‘Why are you here?’ He asked, his voice muffled by his stuffed sinuses and hoarse from his cough. Molly frowned down at him and placed a cool hand against his feverish forehead. It felt wonderful on his overheated skin.

Unwrapping the package, she placed the thermometer in his mouth as she answered him. ‘After your insistence on being around a sick Claire Watson, I knew I would have to keep an eye on you. John asked me to check on you while they’re at Harry’s, too, just in case. Your immune system isn’t that great, you know.’

‘My immund sysdum is fined.’ He pouted around the thermometer.

Molly raised her eyebrows and pulled the device out. ‘You’re right, your immune system is ‘ _fined_.’ After all, a temperature of 38.8 is nothing when you’re Sherlock Holmes, the man who doesn’t sleep properly, is a former drug addict, eats rarely and when he does it’s copious amounts of fried food and take away, and who insists on living in the closest thing to an icebox without more than a bed sheet for warmth.’

Just then a shiver wracked his body and he delved further under his blanket, shooting her a nasty glare. Her smile was hollowly triumphant. She began to pull items from one of the bags: several boxes of tissues, decongestants, Loden’s throat drops, tins of tea, and paracetomal.

‘Did you raid Tescos?’

Molly smiled and began unwrapping the tissue box. ‘Pretty much. When I stopped by the first time, I went around looking for anything you had to treat a cold. Then I picked up whatever you didn’t have.’

He looked at the bounty on the table.

She laughed and reached for a glass of water from the tray. ‘Did you know the only thing you have in your bathroom cabinet, besides a horrid amount of hair products and a single razor, is a bottle of Phillip’s Milk of Magnesia tablets from the 1950s?’

‘Been meaning to chuck it in the bin,’ he mumbled as she handed him the glass and a couple decongestants. Once he had tossed them back, she reached into the bag again and pulled out a bottle of cough syrup.

His eyes narrowed in petulance and he tried in vain to cover his mouth to avoid the sickeningly sweet medicine. But in his weakened state, Molly was easily able to overpower him and forced the bitter liquid down his throat. As he sputtered weary curses at her, she smiled triumphantly and recapped the bottle.

‘Wicked woman,’ he muttered, roughly wiping his mouth.

Sniffling, he reached for the tissues. Molly held out the now-empty Tesco bag as a makeshift bin. She brushed a cool hand across his forehead again.

‘How about a hot shower while the medicine takes effect? I’ll make you some tea and broth, too.’ She offered with a tender smile.

Although his body still ached something terrible, a hot shower sounded delightful. He nodded and groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting positon.

She led him to the bathroom, still swathed in the comforter, where she had already laid out a clean towel and a pair of jammies. She adjusted the water temperature and took the comforter from him. As she was leaving the room, Sherlock reached out and grabbed the door.

‘Thank you.’ Sherlock hesitantly smiled, his eyes still glazed in fever.

She smiled back at him. ‘Anytime, Sherlock.’

 

* * *

 

**The Next Morning**

John hurried up the steps of 221 Baker Street. Molly had texted him the night before, having gone to check on Sherlock and found him wallowing in a fever, without any medicine whatsoever, but assuring him that she would handle it. Once Mary and Claire were settled at home after their all-night train ride, he set off to check in on his former flatmate. And to make sure Molly hadn’t killed him. He knew how Sherlock was when invalided; twice as cruel and three times as likely to hurt himself by insisting he was fine. 

The door to 221b was open and John could make out a pair of feet peeking over the edge of the sofa. Slowly, he crept inside the lounge and his eyes widened. The floor was littered with used tissues, empty glasses, and rumpled blankets. There was a half-eaten bowl of plain broth sitting precariously on the edge of the coffee table and the familiar Sherlock-sized lump on the couch was covered in an unfamiliar, flowery comforter.

The lump suddenly shifted and a very feminine moan sounded from underneath the blanket. John’s eyes widened. The top of the comforter was pulled down and Sherlock’s head appeared. He turned to look over his shoulder and blinked up at John.

‘Sh’lock?’

If possible, John’s eyes widened further as the familiar voice of Molly Hooper came from somewhere in the same vicinity as Sherlock. The tips of the detective’s ears blushed red, but he remained outwardly nonchalant. Pulling the blanket away, he unveiled Molly sandwiched between him and the back of the sofa. She blinked groggily up at them both as she wearily lifted her head and sniffled.

John’s mouth was gaping now as he watched Sherlock look down at Molly in concern and brush a gentle hand across her forehead.

‘My fever broke sometime during the night. However, it seems that  _you_ , Doctor Hooper,’ he chuckled deeply. ‘…have now become the patient.’

Molly groaned and dropped her head back down. 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the befuddled John. ‘I don’t believe we have need of your services, Doctor Watson. I am perfectly capable of caring for Molly, myself.’ 

He pulled the blanket over her and tucked it tightly around her shivering form. ‘After all, I had an excellent teacher.’

John shook his head as he smiled in disbelief. With the amount of medicine and tissue boxes on the floor, he knew they were going to be fine. But as he left the flat, he had a sudden suspicion that thiswouldn’t be the last time Sherlock cuddled with Molly Hooper on the sofa. 


	14. Pinches for St. Patrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from a sweet Nonny: Any chance you can do a St. Patrick's Day Sherlolly fic? Pretty please?

A sudden peal of laughter rang out from inside the lab, halting Sherlock in his tracks just outside the door. He peered through the small window and frowned. Molly wasn’t in sight, but it had been her laugh he heard. A lab tech ( _male, recent hire, average intelligence, married_ ) was edging around the table, smiling and saying something Sherlock couldn’t make out through the doors. The man’s eyes were narrowed and he was smiling deviously.

Suddenly, Molly sidestepped into his line of sight, her back to the door. Her shoulders were shaking with mirth and she pointed a finger at the technician who was slowly rounding the table. A protective instinct flared to life as Sherlock watched the scene.

Then, all at once, the three moved.

The tech jumped around the edge of the table and lunged at Molly, who shrieked in laughter and whirled around to run out the door. Her escape was ruined as Sherlock burst into the room and caught her up against his chest mid-leap. His withering glare eliminated all signs of play on the (begrudgingly handsome) lab tech’s face.

‘Sherlock!’ Molly exclaimed in surprise. His hands tightened their grip on her waist as he glowered at the other man over her head.

‘You must be Molly’s boyfriend,’ the man smiled and extended his hand in greeting. Sherlock stared down at it in disdain and his lips thinned as he bit back the wave of deductions on the tip of his tongue.

‘Oh, sorry!’ Molly twisted as much as she could in Sherlock’s iron hold. ‘Devon, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Devon’s the new laboratory technician. He just moved here from Cardiff with his-’

‘Leave,’ Sherlock snapped at the man, interrupting Molly’s introduction. _Devon_ flinched in surprise and quickly obeyed, shooting Molly a concerned look just as the doors shut behind him.

‘Sherlock, that was very rude!’ Molly yanked herself away from him and placed her hands on her hips. ‘What on earth has gotten into you?’

‘Finding my… _girlfriend_ having playtime with another man.’

Molly frowned in confusion. ‘It wasn’t… Sherlock, it wasn’t like that.’

‘It was obvious you were enjoying his attention. He would be wise to refrain from chasing _my_ pathologist in the future.’

‘You don’t need to worry, love.’ She brushed a curl from his forehead and smiled tenderly up at him. ‘I’m not interested in _anyone_ but you.’

Sherlock crossed his arms petulantly and plopped down on a nearby stool. ‘I’m still not comfortable with your sexually-charged interaction with him.’

‘Sexually… with _Devon_?’ Molly asked in bewilderment, pointing a finger at the door Devon had left through.

‘Yes, with _Devon._ The only man who should be chasing you is me.’

Molly’s heart melted at his words. Though he tried to sound angry and _macho_ , she heard the underlying fear and hurt. With a smile, she stepped between his legs and forced his arms around her waist.

‘I can’t guarantee there won’t be men that will chase me. But I promise, you’re the only one who will catch me.’ He softened slightly as she pulled herself closer. ‘And don’t worry about Devon. I don’t think his husband would understand his having an affair with a woman.’

Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. ‘He’s gay.’

Molly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, giggling happily. ‘How did you not see it?’

‘All I saw was a man chasing my… woman. Primal instincts kicked in before deductive reasoning.’

‘Primal instincts, indeed,’ Molly purred and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

‘So why was a gay, married man chasing you?’

She stared up at him in surprise. ‘Are you saying you don’t actually know?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I would not ask if I already knew.’ He waved his hand in a sign for her to explain.

‘It’s St. Patrick’s Day and I’m not wearing green,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s a ridiculous custom. On this day, if you’re not wearing green, anyone has a free pass to pinch you. Devon was just trying to get me.’ She took in his attire. ‘I’m surprised John hasn’t pinched _you_ yet.’

‘Ridiculous,’ he scoffed, wrinkling his brow in derision. ‘Another pointless tradition that does nothing to serve humanity.’

‘You think so?’

He missed the mischievous spark in Molly’s eye as he puffed out his chest to prove himself right. ‘There is nothing to be gained by inflicting pain upon another person based on the color of their clothing. If anything, it tells that person that because he or she did not conform, they are to be punished.’

Molly nodded solemnly in agreement. ‘You’re right.’

‘Of course, I am.’

With a cheeky wink, she slipped her hand down and pinched his bottom.

‘Molly!’

‘Well, you may have missed _one_ potential advantage.’ 


	15. Not Like Normal People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the lovely mychakk on FF.net.

 

'Claire, love is a chemical defect. It inhibits mental faculties and has proven to be the most common motivator for violent crime. Love itself is a construct of society based upon several factors: the attractiveness of one person to another, the compatibilities of their personalities, and chemicals in the mind reacting positively to a rush of information and causing the tendons in the heart to constrict.'

'You've made your stance on love  _very_ clear to us, Sherlock. Must you inflict it on my daughter?' John rubbed his hands over his face as Sherlock ignored him and began to pace about the lounge of 221b.

'I've seen the aftermath of this so-called love when it ends. As my brother has reminded me on several occasions; all lives end and all hearts are broken.' Sherlock paced back and forth as he lectured. 'Love blinds us to what we need to see. Your father is the perfect example.'

'Oh,  _god_.'

'If he hadn't been so enamored with Mary, he would have easily picked up on the signs of her past. Even  _he_ is not so pedestrian as to miss them. But his infatuation blinded him because he sought to see the best in her. Human error at its finest.'

'Oi!' Mary exclaimed in offense from her place by John's side.

'But here they are, married happily and celebrating your life. Why?'

Sherlock fell silent for a moment.

'By all accounts, John had every right to dismiss your mother from his life. His trust in her had been obliterated. He didn't even know her real name. And yet… he forgave her. How?'

Sherlock paced for a minute then turned back. 'The only thing he knew was that he loved her. Not a name, not a made-up past, but the woman he had gotten to know for all her bossiness and brilliance.'

Mary grabbed John's hand and squeezed it gently.

'They rebuilt their relationship based  _solely_ on love,' Sherlock said with a small laugh. 'It may have blinded him in the beginning, but when it mattered, it gave him courage. It started out as a chemical reaction courtesy of the body's primal instincts. But as I've watched their marriage grow, I've seen that love can evolve.'

John stared up at Sherlock, incredulous.

'It may start as a rush of chemicals. But as truth comes to light, love is proven to be more than a chemical defect. It is a promise. A promise that they will cherish each other and protect each other, forgive each other and remain faithful above all else.' He stopped pacing and faced Claire with a solemn sadness on his face. 'I have not been wrong often in my life. Three times, perhaps four. But I fear this particular mistake has cost me precious time.'

The entire room held their breath as Sherlock reached into his pocket. He turned to the window where a dumbfounded Molly had been standing during his speech. Her eyes widened as he took a step toward her.

'Molly, I'm not like normal people. I don't hold my tongue, John often has to remind me of what's 'not good,' I manipulate and insult everyone around me. And you  _saw_ me. You saw  _me_. And you stayed.'

Molly gulped visibly as he took another step closer.

'I'm not like normal people,' he repeated. 'Normal people meet, date, and fall in love in a matter of months.'

He took another step, close enough now that she could feel his body heat. He lifted the box between them.

'For all my brilliance, it took me far too long to realize that what I feel for you is not a chemical reaction or a blind infatuation. It took ten years for me to understand that the reason I want to protect you, the reason I am utterly terrified of losing you, the reason my body repels the idea of your marrying another man, is because somewhere along the line I fell in love with you.'

He carefully opened the box. A sparkling diamond ring was nestled in a satin bed. Molly stared down at it in shock, her chest rising and falling quickly.

'Love is a strength. And with you next to me, I'll always count myself on the winning side.' He reached for her hand and poised the ring above her finger. 'Will you-mmpff!'

His question was cut off as Molly grasped his neck and pulled him down, wordlessly answering him with a searing kiss.

The surprised cheers and shouts and Claire's tinkling laughter behind them faded as Sherlock's moment of shock wore off and he stole Molly into his embrace.

When he finally pulled away with a dazed smile on his face, she wrinkled her nose up at him. 'You kind of stole Claire's thunder.'

'It's her first birthday. She won't remember it,' he smirked, sliding the ring onto his fiancée's finger.


	16. Oh, my darling Clementine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the lovely Starswirling: If you're still taking prompts, can we have a story about how Sherlock sees Molly with Baby Watson and it stirs up some feelings?

John crossed his arms and glared up at the Consulting Babysitter. ‘Those are my conditions. No Molly, no baby.’

Sherlock huffed and pouted. ‘I’m a perfectly capable adult…’

John snorted.

‘…who is _perfectly capable_ of taking care of a six-month-old baby for an afternoon.’

‘Even if that were true, which it isn’t,’ John retorted with raised eyebrows. ‘Molly has the experience and know-how of a nanny. Humour me and let Molly supervise. If she determines you don’t need assistance, then we’ll talk.’

Grumbling, Sherlock conceded just as a timid knock sounded from below.

He didn’t need Molly to supervise. _He_ wasn’t the child. He’d prove to John he was every bit as capable at handling baby Claire as Molly.

* * *

‘Please stop crying,’ Sherlock pleaded, his arms extended as he held Claire away from him and begged her to stop wailing. From her perch on the couch, Molly was clearly torn between taking charge and letting him suffer just a little bit longer.

But as Claire’s cries grew feverish, Molly interceded and swept the child into her arms. Almost immediately, the baby quieted, although fat tears still rolled down her chubby cheeks and she hiccupped every so often.

‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’ Molly cooed. She had watched Sherlock try to burp Claire, change her, feed her, rock her, and pacify her with a dummy. None of which had served to calm the hysterical child.

An exhausted Sherlock flopped into his chair as Molly started pacing the length of the room, speaking sweetly to the baby. He closed his eyes as the baby’s cries stopped completely. _Clearly, Claire is unaware that_ I _am in charge._

A gentle hum filled the room, soft and familiar. He lolled his head to the side and glanced up at Molly. She was smiling down at the baby in her arms as she started singing quietly.

_‘_ _Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, oh, my darling Clementine…’_

He recognized the tune but the words had been deleted long ago. Her voice grew a little louder as Claire gurgled happily, her sadness long forgotten now that Aunt Molly was singing.

_‘Drove she ducklings to the water, every morning just at nine. Hit her foot against a splinter, fell into the foaming brine…’_

Sherlock stared in shock as Molly continued singing the happy tune, his eyes wide with amused horror as he listened to the lyrics.

_‘Oh, my darling, oh, my darling, oh, my darling Clementine.  You are lost and gone forever. Dreadful sorry, Clementine…’_

Sweet little Molly glanced up innocently at him and smiled brightly, as though she wasn’t singing about the death of a child toher goddaughter. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be horrified or… or smitten.

_‘Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine. But alas, I was no swimmer, so I lost my Clementine…’_

He didn’t realize his mouth had turned into a half-smile as he watched her rock Claire gently to the tune, her voice captivating him. Of course, Molly would sing morbid lullabies.

_‘There's a churchyard on the hillside, where the flowers grow and twine. There grow roses, 'mongst the posies, fertilized by Clementine…’_

Sherlock suddenly roared with laughter, unable to stop himself. He doubled over trying to catch his breath, but the words echoed in his mind and sent him into laughter again. Molly stood over him, having stopped singing at his sudden, unexpected display of hysteria.

‘Sherlock?’ Molly asked in concern, as Claire frowned and patted her face, unhappy that the nice tune had stopped.

‘Does Jo-Oh, god- does John know you sing that song to his child?’ Sherlock asked through tears of laughter.

She bit her lip. ‘Well… no. But it’s a common lullaby. My mum sang it to me all the time.’

‘God, Molly, that song…’ He fell into another fit of laughter. Molly flushed bright red.

‘She doesn’t understand the words. It’s the tune that matters, it calms her down,’ she said defensively.   ‘But I’ll stop if you think it’s inappropriate.’

Sobering slightly, Sherlock stared up at her as his eyes softened. ‘It may be a little much for Claire, even with John and Mary as parents.’

His traitorous heart clenched at the hurt in her eyes. Suddenly, he blurted out, ‘But you can sing it to our babies.’

Molly snorted and held the dummy against Claire’s mouth, who happily began sucking on it. Sherlock frowned as she brushed aside his comment. While he hadn’t meant to say it, he suddenly realized he meant every word.

‘I’m serious, Molly.’

She glanced at him in unamused disbelief. ‘Sherlock…’

‘I’d like a family. And I’d like it with you.’

‘With me?’

‘Who else would allow me my eccentricities and experiments? Who else would be interested in hearing the gory details of my cases? Who else would sing lullabies of _death_ to a baby?’ His voice lowered to a whisper as he admitted with sudden realization, ‘Who else would love me just as much as I love her?’

He stood and approached her, her eyes wide as she remained frozen in shock. He gently pulled her in, careful not to sandwich Claire between them, and pressed his lips to hers in an awkward, but heartfelt kiss, telling her without words that he was being honest.

‘Okay,’ she breathed, still quite stunned by the sudden turn of events. Claire gurgled happily up at them and clapped her hands as though approving of the proceedings. Sherlock beamed triumphantly down at them both.

‘Now,’ he declared as he whipped out his phone and sent out a text. ‘I’ll have John come pick up Claire a little early.’ He winked at her cheekily. ‘We need to get started on darling Clementine.’

‘Um, Sherlock, you do know what the song was about.’

‘Well, maybe not Clementine.’ He thought for a minute as he took Claire back from Molly. ‘How do you feel about Anne Bonny?’

‘We’re not naming our child after a _pirate._ ’

‘We’ll see.’


	17. Proper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little drabble set in the early 1900s

Her dress swirled around as her husband spun them about the room in a gentle waltz. Molly tilted her head up and, as Sherlock smiled softly down at her, she felt her heart sing. He hadn’t protested even once about attending the Scotland Yard Christmas Formal, wearing a tailored suit without complaint and immediately pulling her onto the dance floor. She glanced appreciatively at the cut of the jacket across his shoulders and giggled when he noticed her gaze, waggling his eyebrows knowingly.

The lights from the chandeliers cast delicate shadows across his angular face and she reached up to trace her thumb along the familiar plane of his cheekbone. He turned his head into her touch and pressed a loving kiss to her palm. She beamed at his rare display of sentiment.

He tugged her closer, bordering on an improper public spectacle even for a husband and wife, but when she smiled at him with those eyes filled with adoration, he wanted her close.

* * *

It was back in their bedroom that night, having exchanged her glittering gown for her husband’s dress shirt, that Molly wrapped her arms around his shoulders and finally pressed her body flush against his, all rules of propriety gone. His arms held her close and his dressing gown fluttered around them as they swayed to an unheard melody.

Utterly content, Molly sighed happily and rested her cheek against Sherlock’s bare chest. He pressed a loving kiss to the crown of her head. With a tender smile, she lifted her head and pulled him down for a proper kiss.

‘I love you, Mrs Holmes,’ he mumbled against her lips.

‘As you should, Mr Holmes.’


	18. Ice Cream and Coincidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr prompt from a lovely Nonny: Any chance you could do one where Sherlock and Molly are happily married with several children (by that I mean lots) and they somehow bump into Irene Adler or Tom?

 

'Daddy! Daddy, they have  _Superman_ ice cream! And it's rainbow colours!'

Sherlock huffed as he lifted his five-year-old daughter into his arms. 'The naming has nothing to do with the flavour, Georgina.'

'Can I have some? Please?'

'Your mother will use me for autopsy practice if I feed you sugar this close to suppertime.'

' _We don't have to tell her,'_  Georgina whispered loudly. She glanced down at the ice cream and back at her father, a pout forming on her lips. Sherlock braced himself as her eyes widened and she blinked prettily at him, a habit she got from her mother.

'Georgina,' he said warningly. He never should have let her drag him into the sweet shop when he was supposed to be bringing her directly home from the park. Oh, Molly would kill him.

Her bottom lip extended into a deep pout and her brown eyes widened to almost cartoon-ish proportions.

But Sherlock held fast. He knew every play in the book. Had taught her most of them, to be honest. His daughter had his intelligence, tempered only by her mother's compassionate personality.

Then Georgina played her winning hand. With shining brown eyes and a sweet voice, she looked up at him adoringly and said, 'Daddy…  _I love you._ '

Every bone in Sherlock's body melted and before he knew it, he had bought her a double-scoop of the sickeningly bright ice cream. She happily licked away at her prize, knowing she had her father looped around her little finger.

His biological manipulator in his arms, Sherlock resumed the trek back to Baker Street. With any luck, he'd get there before Molly and have time to clean up the evidence of his fatherly snafu.

Just as he turned the corner onto Baker Street, a man with his head buried in his phone, stumbled into him. Sherlock tightened his hold on Georgina, who was still consuming her ice cream with gusto, unfazed by the jerky ride.

'I'm so sorry,' the man mumbled, picking up his dropped phone. Sherlock stared at the top of his head. The brown curls seemed oddly familiar. 'I wasn't paying atten…'

The man trailed off as he straightened. Sherlock frowned as he searched his memory to place the familiar man.

'Sherlock Holmes,' the man exclaimed in surprise and extended his hand in automatic greeting.

'Ah, Tim, right?' Sherlock shook the offered hand.

'It's  _Tom_ , actually,' he corrected with a small smile. 'Gosh, what are the chances of running into  _you_ after all these years?'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. 'Considering I have lived on this particular street for close to a decade, I should think it wouldn't be that surprising.'

'Right, right,' Tom nodded, a goofy smile on his face, as he looked around at the street. His eyes drifted back and landed on Georgina, who was finishing up the last of her ice cream while watching this strange man with wide, deducing eyes. Tom smiled at her and adopted a slightly higher tone of voice. 'And who's this?'

'Georgina Holmes,' she announced and, remembering the manners her mother taught her, stuck out her hand in greeting. Tom, as nice as Sherlock remembered, ignored the stickiness on her fingers and shook her hand.

'A pleasure, Miss Holmes.'

Georgina beamed at being addressed so formally.

'I didn't know you got married or had a daughter,' Tom nodded at the ring on Sherlock's hand. 'I would have thought the media would have been all over that.'

'I like my privacy,' Sherlock replied, not mentioning the measures Mycroft had gone to in order to keep his brother's family safe. Several overeager journalists had once found themselves under suspicion for terrorism after snooping into hospital records about Georgina's birth. 'Keeps them safe.'

'Right, right.'

Sherlock stared at the man, deducing the past ten years since he'd last seen him. Moved to the country, recently promoted, three dogs, in London for a conference… Sherlock's eyes flicked to the man's hand and noticed a somewhat worn wedding ring. 'You've married, as well.'

'Yes, how did… oh, right.' Tom looked down at his ring and smiled fondly. 'We had been childhood sweethearts, lost touch when her father died and she moved, but ran into each other a couple years ago. Got married last month.'

'She gave you her late father's ring,' Sherlock noted.

Tom nodded. 'We're expecting now,' he beamed with pride. 'I still can't believe it, it feels so... surreal.'

Georgina rested her head in the crook of Sherlock's neck and he felt his heart swell. 'That feeling never goes away.'

'I hope not.'

Tom had never been a threat to Sherlock, he was a nice, normal man, someone that would have made Molly happy. She could have had nice, normal, half-way intelligent babies with him and never known how Sherlock had felt.

Chest puffed with contentment, Sherlock smiled down at his daughter. Yes, Molly might have married Tom. But, in the end, she had chosen to smack sense in Sherlock and give him a chance to realize what he would miss out on.

'Well, I should be going. It was good to see you, Sherlock.'

Sherlock tilted his head. 'And you, Tom.'

He waved goodbye to Georgina and, nodding to Sherlock, continued down the street.

Sherlock watched him leave, a burden of guilt he hadn't known he carried suddenly lifted from his chest. Tom had moved on and found happiness of his own, as Molly had with Sherlock.

'Mummy!' Georgina squealed. Sherlock turned and saw Molly alight from a cab in front of 221.

'Was that  _Tom_  I saw you talking to?' Molly stared wide-eyed at the man disappearing down the street as she walked toward them.

'Indeed,' Sherlock hummed and lowered Georgina to the ground. She immediately rushed over to Molly and tackled her legs. Well-practiced with the hurricane that is her daughter, Molly had braced one hand against the iron railing and the other protectively atop her well-rounded stomach.

'Finally took a cab, eh?' Sherlock greeted her with a tender kiss and a smirk.

Molly scowled at him. 'Well, my feet hurt. And it was either a cab or the car Mycroft sent. And I'm not riding in some blacked-out, unmarked car. It makes me feel like more of a target than taking a regular cab like a normal person,' she said as she glowered at the CCTV camera on the opposite building and placed a protective hand on Georgina's dark curls.

'Never thought I'd say this, but Mycroft is simply concerned.' Sherlock pressed a hand against her belly. 'We all are. You still have two months until the twins are due. And if you insist on working, we're going to insist on worrying.'

Tired of being ignored, Georgina pulled on the hem of her mother's top and looked up at her with a pout identical to her father's. 'Mummy, we went to the park!'

'Really?' Molly said drily as she picked a couple twigs from her daughter's curls. Her eyes widened as she took in her daughter's entire appearance. 'Georgina Holmes! What on earth is on your hands and face?'

'Daddy bought me ice cream,' Georgina beamed. Molly's face turned stormy and Sherlock immediately began backing toward the door to 221.

'Sherlock,' she said warningly.

'Now, Molly,' Sherlock laughingly pleaded as she stepped into the foyer after him, Georgina's hand firmly in her grasp. The look in her eyes spelled out a long week of being banned from the lab. 'It was just a little treat.'

'It was  _two_   _whole scoops_ , Mummy!'

'Sherlock Holmes!'

Well, clearly Georgina's next lesson would be on the lost art of secrecy and how not to betray Daddy to Mummy.


	19. Not Ready For This

Sherlock watched from the window as the boy hesitated on the street, approaching the front door then quickly turning away. And repeat.

‘Sherlock, what are you doing?’

An arm wrapped around his waist and he felt a familiar weight lean into him. Molly peeked out the window and smiled.

‘Oscillation on the street?’

Sherlock hummed and wrinkled his nose. ‘Shows a lack of conviction.’

Molly nudged him. ‘No, it shows great fear. After all, you are the Great Sherlock Holmes.’

‘I am great,’ he agreed with a smirk.

‘Humble, too,’ she replied drily.

He pressed a kiss to the top of head, the brown tresses he loved dearly now interwoven with gentle silver strands.  _Where has the time gone?_

A frantic pounding down the stairs preceded their daughter’s hurricane-like entrance.

_Oh, that’s right._

‘Is he here? Oh, my god, is he here?’ Georgina rushed into the room, pulling nervously on her top and fixing imaginary fly-aways in her hair. Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat as he stared at his daughter. At nearly 18, she was the spitting image of her mother, but with his dark curls and changing eyes. She wore a casual top and jeans, perfect for a first date. His brow furrowed darkly at the thought. Molly drew Georgina into a calming embrace and said whatever needed to be said to reassure her.

The doorbell rang shrilly.

‘That’s him.’ Molly smiled at her daughter and went to open the front door. Georgina wrung her hands together and bit her lip.

‘He’s been oscillating on the street for eight minutes.’ He wasn’t sure why he said it, but the words seemed to bring a measure of relief to Georgina.

She laughed nervously. ‘Really?’

He looked at her closely. She was looking for reassurance that the boy liked her. She wasn’t nervous about him meeting her parents; if Sherlock or Molly hadn’t approved, the boy would never have made it to the doorbell. No, she was worried the boy didn’t like her… as much as she clearly liked him.

Words never came easy to him, so instead of placating phrases he didn’t mean, Sherlock simply pulled his daughter into a fierce, but brief hug, releasing her with a kiss to the top of her curly head.

Molly entered just then, Georgina’s date right behind. With ashy blond hair was cropped close to his head, Harry Watson stood nearly as tall as Sherlock, clearly inheriting height from some regressive gene in John and Mary. His blue eyes flickered in fear as they took in Sherlock’s murderous expression that all but spoke of bodily harm should anything happen to his daughter. But the minute Harry turned his gaze to Georgina, the fear fell away and his eyes widened in awe as his cheeks burned red.

The childhood best friends stood awkwardly, used to an intimate friendship without pressure for anything more. Then, like a snowflake landing on the top of a mountain, their feelings for each other grew rapidly and it took a small push from their mothers to bring them to this point.

The first date.

Nervous, Georgina smiled shyly. ‘Hi, Harry.’

‘H-hello, Georgina,’ Harry stammered, equally nervous. ‘Ready to go?’

She nodded quickly and grabbed her small purse from the table. With a brief wave to her parents and a fatherly reminder to be home by ten, the couple made their way from Baker Street.

As soon as the door to the street slammed shut, Sherlock bolted to the window. Laughing quietly to herself, Molly followed at a more sedate pace. She linked her arm with his as they watched their daughter take her first steps into a serious relationship with the boy she’d known her entire life.

Sherlock’s heart clenched as the couple shyly intertwined their fingers and turned the corner.

Oh, God, he wasn’t ready for this.


	20. Sweats and a Blind Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Sherlock teaching Molly how to dance (whilst in lazy clothes) before they go to prom

The knock on her bedroom door pulled her out of her reading in confusion. Molly rolled off her bed and opened the door hesitantly, nearly stumbling back in shock to see Sherlock standing in the hallway.

‘Sherlock, it’s nearly midnight! What are you doing here?’ She whispered harshly.

He pushed past her into the room, his long overcoat flaring and revealing flannel pyjama pants underneath.

‘How did you get in?’ She closed the door behind him quietly, knowing her parents, though heavy sleepers, may still be awake two rooms down the hall.

‘I picked the lock on your front door. Your parents should look into a more secure safety measure, it was distressingly easy,’ he said plainly as he stripped off his coat and threw it across her bed.

Suddenly aware that she was only wearing her brother’s old, hand-me-down sweatpants and a tee shirt, Molly flushed red and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘So, you came to practice your lockpicking skills?’

He frowned as he walked over to her desk, fiddling with his phone. ‘No, don’t be ridiculous.’ He flicked his finger across the screen and suddenly soft violin music filled the room. He set the phone down and turned back to her. ‘I came here to teach you to dance.’

Molly whispered in confusion, ‘At 11:45 on a Friday night?’

‘John informed me that Mary confided in _him_ that _you_ admitted to _her_ that you were concerned about your dancing ability with the spring formal happening tomorrow night. I have… plans tomorrow morning, so tonight is the only time I was able to come.’ He held his arms out expectantly.

‘Okay… but why?’ Molly asked slowly, worried for her friend’s sanity. She had been friends with Sherlock for several years and knew of his many socially lacking qualities and was utterly confused by this sudden display of unprovoked kindness.

He frowned in confusion. ‘You are my friend. Is this not something that a friend would do?’

Bemused, Molly simply acquiesced and placed her hand in his. He pulled her close and settled his free hand on her waist. Her skin burned under her shirt as his fingers twitched and splayed over her hip.

‘This is a simple waltz,’ he said as he nudged her leg. She stepped back jerkily. ‘I, as the lead, am in charge of the turns and the direction.’

‘You just like being in charge, don’t you?’ Molly teased quietly, giggling as his brow wrinkled.

‘The waltz in a proper dance and juvenile laughter is therefore discouraged.’

Molly bit her lip and nodded her head in mock agreement at his serious tone. He continued to guide her slowly around the small space and she quickly relaxed into the simply pattern. Sherlock’s occasional instructions stopped entirely as she caught on and he smiled down at her proudly. Her heart skipped a beat at the soft look in his eyes.

Molly had long since buried her feelings for Sherlock after her attempts to ask him out had ended in abysmal humiliation. But to have him here, in her bedroom, holding her as though she was something… precious, was almost more than the barriers she placed around her heart could hold.

Lowering her head and staring at their feet, Molly whispered, ‘Why did you really come, Sherlock?’

He didn’t answer, but his hold on her hand tightened slightly.

‘Sherlock?’

He sighed and they slowed a bit as Molly pulled back slightly and looked up at him. ‘I did not want you to feel foolish about not being able to dance.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘That is… uncommonly sweet of you.’

‘ _And_ I…’ He cleared his throat. ‘I had hoped to discuss, perhaps, accompanying you to the formal tomorrow evening.’

Her heart began racing. She swallowed thickly and focused her gaze intently on the small chemical stain on his sleep shirt. ‘Cutting it pretty close, don’t you think?’

He turned them 90 degrees. ‘As your moronic ex-boyfriend has now left you without an escort, I trust you will accept my offer?’

‘Actually,’ Molly bit her lip in regret. ‘I was going to go with one of John’s friends, a sort of blind date. John and Mary offered to set me up when no one… asked me to the dance,’ she trailed off into a whisper as she flicked a meaningful gaze at him.

‘I see. And were you looking forward to this blind date?’

Molly shrugged. ‘Not particularly. I don’t have the greatest luck with boys. It was more of an ‘I don’t want to be the loser who shows up as the third wheel with her best friends’ fallback.’

His grip on her waist tightened and he pulled her a touch closer. ‘Would you feel differently if I told you I am your blind date?’

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears as she slowly lifted her gaze to his.

Immediately deducing her doubts and hurt, Sherlock squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘After that idiot you called your _boyfriend_ dumped you a week before the dance, I’d been trying to find a way to ask you myself. I had John set you up on a blind date, which is me, by the way, so you wouldn’t accept anyone else in the meantime.’ He grinned down at her. ‘A good plan, if I do say so myself.’

Molly gaped at him.

He raised his eyebrows as she stared up in shock. ‘See, now would be the point where you squeal with girlish delight and tearfully accept my offer, preferably with a kiss. That’s what couples do, right?’

Molly’s vision flared red and her expression turned thunderous. Of all the nerve! To act as though she should be grateful that he finally decided she was interesting. To think that she’d be overjoyed by his offer and accept him on the spot.

Well, he was half right.

‘Molly?’ Sherlock stepped back, suddenly unsure of his plan’s success as Molly stalked him across the room, crowding him against the wall.

She glared daggers at him as she hissed, ‘Five years, Sherlock Holmes. I’ve spent five years of my life being rudely, heartbreakingly, torn down by _you._ And you think suddenly I’m going to fall into your arms gratefully because _you_ decide you want a relationship?’

‘Perhaps I may have underestimated the hurt I’ve caused you…’ He gulped as she poked his chest with a sharp finger.

‘Here’s the deal, Mister Holmes. You show up tomorrow night at 7 o’clock, wearing a suit, and carrying a bouquet of flowers.’ Reaching over, she grabbed his phone and shoved it into his hands. ‘ _Then_ we’ll talk.’

Mumbling something about her being a little unreasonable and ‘but what about my _kiss_ , Molly,’ he regretfully let her guide him out of the bedroom. Once he was shuffling down the hall to the front door, Molly shut her door and leaned against it. A grin started to spread across her face.

Sherlock wanted her. _Her._

Oh, she’d make him pay for the humiliation of the past five years and then the blind date ploy. A couple trips to the cinema to see romantic comedies would be a justifiable punishment.

But at the end of it all, he’d be her boyfriend.

Happy giggles rose in her throat.

It was possible that he may be getting that kiss sooner than she planned.


	21. All of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly songfic based on All of Me by Matt Hammitt. Because I’m a sucker for songs that make me cry happy tears.

_Afraid to love something that could break. Could I move on if you were torn away? A_ _nd I'm so close to what I can't control. I can't give you half my heart and pray He makes you whole_

The faint beep of the heartrate monitor penetrated the muggy haze of her mind. Slowly, the clatter of footsteps and disjointed conversation seeped in, drawing her further out of the fog. With great effort, Molly managed to open her lethargic eyelids, blinking away the grit of sleep to see a fuzzy white ceiling. 

She groaned as she inhaled deeply and a deep ache pierced her abdomen.

‘Molly?’

A blur of black and blue suddenly appeared over her. As her vision focused, she could make out the pale face of Sherlock Holmes, his curls matted on one side and red sleep lines crossing his cheek. His eyes, though, were wide and filled with tears and hope.

Her brow furrowed in confusion and she tried to lift her hand to wipe at the uncharacteristic tear that was slowly making its way down his face, but the effort was too much and her hand fell back to her side.

‘Moriarty?’ She rasped, her hoarse voice cracking from dryness and disuse.

Sherlock grabbed her tired hand and pressed it to his chest. ‘He’s gone. For good, Molly.’

Relaxing back into the bed, Molly closed her eyes in relief.

‘He won’t hurt you again. No one will.’ Sherlock squeezed her hand and leaned over to press his forehead to hers. He took a shaky breath and whispered, ‘I promise.’

Already drifting back into oblivion, Molly dismissed his strange behaviour as a dream, a nice fairytale after Moriarty’s torture.

* * *

_You're gonna have all of me. You're gonna have all of me._

_Cause you're worth every falling tear… you're worth facing any fear_

The stairs to 221b Baker Street had never seemed insurmountable before. But as Molly looked up at them, a hand pressed to the thick bandage around her waist, she suddenly felt very weak. Beside her, Sherlock held out his arm.

‘You can do this.’ He said encouragingly. Molly placed one hand on his arm and braced the other on the stair rail. Taking as deep a breath as she could, she placed a shaky, but determined foot on the first step. Slowly and painfully, she made her way to the first landing, Sherlock offering as much support as she’d take.

Breathing heavily and sweating from strain, Molly bit back tears as she rested on the landing. Her ribs ached terribly and her stitches were pulling tightly as she tried to catch her breath. Sherlock guided her to sit on the stairs and gently wrapped his arm around her.

The tears she’d tried to hold in quietly fell as she leaned into his comfort. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

She closed her eyes as he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple. ‘Never be sorry. Give yourself and your body time to heal.’

‘I just…’ She trailed off as a fresh wave of tears came. ‘I just hate being weak.’

‘You’re not weak,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re a fighter. You fought Moriarty and won. You fought death and won. You, Molly Hooper, are anything but weak.’

She smiled briefly into his shoulder and he tugged her closer. After a few more minutes, she gently pushed herself up, ready to climb the final flight of stairs. This time, Sherlock tenderly wrapped his arm around her waist, helping lift her as she took each step carefully.

As she finally made it to the top and looked back, Molly felt the overwhelming helplessness that had plagued her for the entire month she’d spent in the hospital start to lift off her heart.  

* * *

 _I won't let sadness steal you from my arms, I won't let pain keep you from my heart_  

_I'll trade the fear of all that I could lose for every moment I share with you_

The nightmares came with a vengeance. Terror and pain ricocheted in her mind as she flailed in the constricting bedsheets. One week into her stay at Baker Street and not a night had gone by that wasn’t pierced with Molly’s screams, her cries for help, her pleading for Sherlock to find her. _  
_

Sherlock would listen from his place on the sofa, his heart breaking at her cries, but not knowing how to comfort her. The guilt ate away at him as he heard her begging for him to come save her, even as John or Mary rushed into the spare bedroom to calm her down.

He’d failed her. Moriarty had taken someone infinitely precious to him and tore her into such broken pieces, even Sherlock, the great puzzle-solver, may never be able to put back together again. The heart he’d for so long denied having was shattering.

Her terror reached a fever pitch this night, Mary soothing her as a mother would, but Molly refused to go back to sleep, refused to be at the mercy of Moriarty again, even in her dreams.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the images her cries elicited. The Moriarty in his mind laughed maniacally, shouting about having finally managed to break Sherlock’s heart.

_No. Moriarty won’t win._

Sherlock stood and slowly made his way into the room as Mary tried to comfort the broken woman. Molly’s eyes were wide in fear, her body shaking and covered in sweat as she clutched Mary’s shirt tightly, and she was struggling to breathe normally.

‘Mary,’ Sherlock whispered. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

Surprised and relieved, Mary nodded and extricated herself gently from the bed. Molly barely noticed as the person next to her changed from a warm, motherly figure to a muscular, uncertain figure.  

Unsure of what to say or do, Sherlock let out a deep breath and relaxed into the bed, wrapping his arms loosely around Molly’s still trembling form. She clutched at his dressing gown and burrowed into the crevice of his shoulder.

He pressed a firm hand to her back and held her tightly against his side. She breathed in deeply and suddenly relaxed. Sherlock glanced down to see her eyes flutter shut and her breathing beginning to even out. The tense and fearful lines around her eyes and mouth were gone. He brushed a hand across her forehead, pushing the sweat-slicked hair away from her face.

‘I’m here, Molly,’ he whispered as he twined his fingers through hers and held their clasped hands to his chest. ‘I won’t leave.’

His eyes drifted shut as Molly began to snore lightly, finally sleeping in peace.

* * *

_You're gonna know all my love even if it's not enough_

_Enough to mend our broken hearts, but giving you all of me is where I'll start_

‘I think I’m ready to go home.’

Sherlock froze, his hands hovering over his laptop’s keyboard. Looking up, he saw Molly standing in the doorway to the kitchen, nervously twisting her hands. In the past six weeks, her wounds had healed for the most part and the nightmares were few and far between. He hadn’t considered that she’d want to leave.

He cleared his throat. ‘If that’s what you want. But you are more than welcome to… stay.’

She smiled briefly and his heart constricted. He missed the dimpled smiles, the way her eyes gleamed with joy, something he hadn’t seen since before she’d been taken. It was just another thing Moriarty had stolen from them.

‘Thank you, but I… I need to learn to be on my own again.’ Her gaze flickered to the floor. A lie, in part.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘Have I done something?’

Molly shook her head and huffed a laugh. ‘What haven’t you done, Sherlock? You’ve taken care of me, comforted me, and helped me learn how to deal with… everything that happened.’

He stood and walked over to her, lifting her chin until she looked him in the eyes.

‘What aren’t you telling me?’ He asked in confusion, seeing the unnamed emotions flicker across her face. He tenderly brushed his thumb across the line of her chin.

‘You’ve put your entire life on hold for me,’ she admitted sadly, closing her eyes in pain. A tear escaped and fell onto his thumb. Her words stumbled out in a rush as she pulled her face from his grasp. ‘And while I am grateful, I… I don’t want… I don’t want you to do anything for me out of pity. Or some misplaced guilt. It wasn’t your fault, I don’t blame you in any way, and now that I’m almost fully healed, it’s time I went home.’

Sherlock stared at her, brow furrowed, as he listened to her.

‘I’m not doing this out of  _pity_ ,’ he said plainly. ‘And I’m not doing it out of guilt.’

Molly stared at him with disbelieving eyes. ‘Sherlock-‘

‘Have I  _ever_  done anything out of guilt or pity?’ He chuckled ruefully. Taking a chance, he grasped her limp hands in his and held them against his chest, letting her feel the pounding of his racing heart. Her eyes widened and her hand spasmed against his chest in surprise.

‘I’m doing this because I love you.’ His eyes pleaded with her to believe him. Her pulse against his fingertips sped up and her wariness faded. ‘When he took you, it broke my heart. Because you,  _you_ are my heart, Molly. And he broke you.’

She swallowed thickly as he stepped closer, staring down at her intently.

‘My life hasn’t been put on hold, because you are the most important thing in it and you needed me.’ He leaned down slowly and pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as she breathed a sigh of capitulation. ‘You needed me. And I need you.’ Her breath hitched. ‘Stay. Please.’

Her hand fisted the fabric of his shirt and she pulled him closer, wrapping her arms around him.

‘Okay.’

* * *

 _Heaven brought you to this moment, it's too wonderful to speak_ _  
So let me recklessly love you, even if I bleed_

It was a cloudless day, the sun shining across the rolling hills under a brilliantly blue sky. The yard of the quaint redbrick cottage was decorated with tables and chairs and flowers.

A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, carrying a soft melody drawn from the violin strings and the newlyweds, barefoot and joyful, twirled slowly to the tune. The small number of guests happily watched as the groom cheekily dipped his bride back, her unbound hair tickling the grass. The scars on her body had long since faded and she smiled unreservedly, the joy that had been stolen from her returned tenfold by the man who held her so lovingly.

Setting Molly back on her feet, Sherlock lowered his head and kissed her tenderly. ‘Thank you for marrying me, Mrs Holmes.’

Her eyes shone brightly and she beamed up at her new husband, the dimples he loved dearly appearing on her rosy cheeks. ‘Thank you for saving me, Mr Holmes.’

_You're worth all of me... you're worth all of me_


	22. A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Could you please write a fic where Molly and Sherlock are soulmates? Grazzi!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, um, have absolutely no previous experience in writing soul mates. And I went a little off the usual ‘soul mark.’  
> Edited: I've decided to change the ending to maintain story flow. Thanks to Bellarsam-Chrisjulittle for your advice and encouragement!

 

'Ashes toashes, dust to dust…'

The reverend's words washed over Sherlock like the rain pouring down, drowning him in an endless sea of sorrow, leaving him to drift aimlessly. He watched numbly as the coffin was lowered. His wife. Gone.

With every pile of dirt forever separating him from her, Sherlock buried his heart deeper and deeper until he couldn't feel the agony of losing his soul mate. It wasn't until he felt a pinching pain in his cheeks from the cold wind that he realized everyone else had left.

Pulling the sleeve of his coat up, he tenderly ran his gloved hand up the vein that connected his palm to his heart. Once a shimmering silver, it was now a dismal grey. A Heart Line severed by death. They'd had less than a year together. A lifetime ripped away. A lifetime he'd have to spend alone.

Placing his hand atop her headstone, he whispered, 'Goodbye, Irene.'

* * *

**Five years later**

Heart Lines.

A blessing and a curse. At least, it felt like a curse to Molly. She gently traced the pale blue vein that extended from the palm of her left hand up her arm and across her clavicle, disappearing as it connected to her heart. Fate, or whatever being designed the Heart Lines, paired two people together through their veins. All it took was one touch from your soulmate and your Heart Lines synced.

Many claimed to feel the thrum of their soul mate's heartbeat at their first touch. Others dismissed it as a phantom pain. But all who met their pair witnessed the shimmering transition of their Heart Line from pale blue to a silvery-white. All felt the tug as the lines connecting their hearts were finally linked.

Sighing heavily, Molly pulled the sleeve of her lab coat down, covering her Line. At 29, she was beginning to lose hope that she'd ever meet the other half of her Heart Line.

* * *

London's dreary fog burrowed around him as he shouldered his way out of the building.

'New Scotland Yard. Bah! Corrupt idiots in suits who were after their own ends, committing crimes instead of solving them,' Sherlock grumbled darkly to himself and flipped up the collar of his coat.

He was just beginning to make progress as a Consulting Detective and a DI with an ego bigger than Sherlock's buggered up the evidence and blamed it on him. What he wouldn't give to meet just one person who cared more about the quality of their work instead of the payout from a corrupt judge trying to keep his record clean.

So consumed in his bitter thoughts, Sherlock failed to see the crosswalk flash red. Just as he stepped off the curb, a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed a fistful of his Belstaff. He was yanked violently backwards just as a cab roared around the corner. His long limbs flailed at the change in momentum and he staggered back, knocking into the person who had grabbed him.

'Oh!' The young woman cried out as she collapsed, landing in a rather undignified sprawl on the walk. Stunned at the situation, Sherlock stared at her, deducing her quickly.  _Late-20s, un-Paired, cat-owner, alone, size 10, hospital worker, scalpel scars indicate surgery skills, pale skin, slight scent of formaldehyde and lemons… ah, specialist registrar._

She began struggling to her feet, picking up a rather worn messenger bag that had fallen off her shoulder. Her brown hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and she wore a gray jumper with a pair of baggy trousers that were now slightly wet from her seat in a puddle.

Snapping out of his daze, Sherlock realized belatedly that it was customary to offer assistance to someone who had fallen _. Especially if that person just saved your life, you git._  He inwardly sneered at the voice of John in his head and extended a hand down to the woman.

She glanced up at him in surprise before carefully placing her hand in his.

The moment her fingers brushed against the palm of his hand, a searing pain raced up his Heart Line.

'Son of a-' He gasped and yanked his hand away. Shoving up the sleeve of his coat, he watched in horrified shock as his Heart Line blazed brilliantly white.

'Impossible,' he growled in astonishment. His soul mate was dead. He'd already met the other half of his Heart Line and watched her be torn away by the hands of death. He looked up at the woman as she finally stood, her face carrying a similar expression of astonishment, though hers was significantly more joyful.

A small crowd had gathered around them and cried out excitedly at witnessing the connection of two Heart Lines.

The woman grinned and looked up at him somewhat shyly, dimples appearing on her rosy cheeks. 'Hello.'

Her voice was full of wonder and happiness. But all Sherlock could see was a woman who was not his late wife. Her hair was too light, her body too child-like, her make-up simple and unflattering, her eyes too brown.

'This is a mistake.' The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

She stepped back as though he'd slapped her. 'What?'

Turning on his heel, he pushed his way through the confused crowd and stalked down the street, ignoring the thrum of energy running up his Heart Line and deleting the shattered look on the woman's face when he dismissed their Connection.

* * *

Mike Stamford watched sadly as Molly, usually so cheerful and full of life, went through the motions of clearing her lab station. For three weeks now, he'd watched as she slowly withdrew into herself, her eyes hollow and her skin becoming paler, her normal loose clothes seemed to swallow her now.

And he knew it had to do with her Heart Line.

She had come to work one morning in muddied clothes and an air being lost within herself. He noticed the way she held her Heart Line close to her body and knew that something had happened to her soul mate. Some un-Paired mates never got to meet their other half. One day their Lines were blue and the next were the dull grey of a connection never to be made.

Mike had tried to get her to take a few days for a holiday to feel better from whatever was plaguing her. But she refused, adopting a fake smile and assuring him it was just the end-of-winter blues. Knowing that it wasn't right to ask about her Heart Line, Mike accepted her answer with a nod. But he kept a watchful eye on her.

Which was fortunate this day.

There was suddenly a loud clattering of beakers dropping to the floor and shattering near the back wall followed immediately by a solid, cringing thump.

Mike jumped up, kicking his stool over, and rushed to the back of the lab. Unconscious and bleeding from various cuts, Molly lay unmoving and deathly pale surrounded by broken shards of glass.

As he pulled out his phone and dialed for help, Mike noticed the shimmering white on the palm of her upturned hand. He frowned in confusion. Molly's Heart Line was connected.

So why was she mourning?

* * *

'Ah, Mycroft. To what do I owe this great pleasure?' Sherlock sneered as his brother crossed the threshold into 221b Baker Street.

'Am I not allowed to see how you are faring in this… detective business?' An identical sneer flashed across Mycroft's face as he glanced around the haphazardly decorated study.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft gingerly sat in the chair opposite him, the one John usually occupied during his off hours at the clinic.

'You have not left this flat for almost three weeks. I was… concerned,' Mycroft said as he fiddled with the handle of his brolly.

'How touching.'

'Come now, Sherlock. We are, after all, brothers. Surely if something were troubling you,' Mycroft said with a false innocence, 'you would tell me.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in realization. 'You saw.'

'CCTV is a wonderful tool in which to observe everyday life. It just so happens that I witnessed an exchange between two people, a Heart Line Connection, that went very wrong.' With a suddenly compassionate expression, Mycroft moved to the edge of his seat. 'May I?'

Sighing, Sherlock shoved the sleeve of his shirt up his arm and glowered at the throbbing white vein. He could feel the thrum of his heartbeat in the pulsating line as Mycroft stared down at it in wonder.

'Unheard of,' he mumbled, tracing the line to Sherlock's palm. 'A second Heart Line Connection. It defies all logic…'

'What defies all logic, brother mine,' Sherlock spat as he jerked his arm away and covered his Line once more, 'is the idea that Fate or God or some cosmic deity with a morbid sense of humour decides to connect two people through a bloody vein! And when the other person is killed by a vengeful former lover, then the other must live on. Alone.'

Mycroft ignored the anger in his brother's tone, knowing Sherlock was struggling with the sudden idea of another soul mate after Irene had passed on. 'Don't be foolish, Sherlock. You have what no one else has ever been given. A second chance.'

Sherlock's frown softened as he looked at Mycroft curiously.

'You lost your soul mate. And it nearly destroyed you. It took me years to find you in that American drug den and it's bloody miraculous you are as healthy as you are now.'

Sherlock glanced away as the unwelcome feeling of shame and regret washed over him.

'And now you've been given a second chance at life… and at love.'

'She's not… she's not Irene,' Sherlock admitted hoarsely.

Mycroft nodded understandingly. 'No, she's not. And I'm not saying she should be. Her name is Molly Hooper, a doctor of pathology at St. Bart's. Brilliant and kind and someone who you hurt very deeply.'

Sherlock swallowed thickly against the sudden lump in his throat. Mycroft stood and made to leave, turning back to say one last warning. 'You still have time to undo the damage you've done and get to know her for her. But I would not waste another minute.'

Sherlock tilted his head in question, his buried, numb heart thawing only to clench in dread.

'She's been admitted to St. Bartholomew's as a patient.' He reached into his coat and pulled out a small notepad, flipping a few pages. 'Room 4113, to be exact.'

He glanced up from his pad to see Sherlock shoving his arms into his coat, a determined look on his paler than usual face.

'I need a lift,' he spit out as he shoved his way past Mycroft and flew down the stairs.

* * *

Like a storm, Sherlock swept through the hall, past a dozen rooms before coming to a halt outside 4113. Taking a deep breath, he turned the knob and entered the small room. As his gaze traveled up the foot of the bed, his thawing heart pounded almost painfully. Overwhelmed by the large bed, Molly looked even smaller than she had seemed that day on the street. Her brown hair was plaited and hung over her shoulder. Her eyes were closed in sleep, dark shadows haunting them, giving her face an almost skeletal look. She was sickly pale and had lost seven pounds since the he'd last seen her.

'Molly,' he breathed. Somehow the name seemed to fit her perfectly. He stepped further into the room and picked up the chart hanging at the foot of her bed. Reading it quickly, he felt his heart drop into his stomach.  _Severe depression, malnourished, underweight_ … The words seemed to accuse him, echoing in his mind that this was his fault.

He placed the clipboard back and slowly circled the bed, lowering himself into the chair next to her. Brushing a hand through his already tousled curls, he groaned softly.

'This wasn't supposed to happen,' he whispered. 'I was supposed to be alone.'

Molly twitched slightly in her sleep, her hand spasming against the sheets. Sherlock stared at it. Carefully, he reached out and brushed his fingers against hers, feeling the thrill of their connection run along his Heart Line. He slowly twined his fingers through hers, until their palms, the un-connected ends of their Lines, were touching. And it felt like coming home. As though he'd found the best part of him that he never knew he lacked.

Waking at his touch, Molly turned her head and blinked sleepily at him. Her eyes widened in recognition and she tried to pull her hand away, but Sherlock held fast. He wasn't going to mess this up again.

'It's never happened before. A second Connection, that is. Until us.' He rubbed his thumb tenderly over hers. She stared at him in confusion, but hadn't made to take her hand back again. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could fix this.

Sherlock leaned forward and began talking. 'Her name was Irene….'

* * *

Silence descended between them as Sherlock finished his story. He still held Molly's hand and she could feel a tremor of fear pulse through their Connection.

All her dreams of finding her soul mate had come crashing down when he rejected her. His look of astonished horror would be forever carved in her memory. And some part of her heart had died when he turned away from her.

Now he sat beside her. Sherlock Holmes. Her soul mate.

And he had just told her she wasn't his first.

She didn't know if she truly believed him. Her heart cried out 'yes.' But her mind whispered 'He's lying.' In all of history, there had never been a documented case of a Second Connection. It was unheard of and unthinkable. A soul mate was a soul mate, no one got  _two_.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back into the pillows, overwhelmed by doubts.

To be fair, she had recently collapsed and was having a hard time coping with the gamut of emotions suddenly rushing through her.

For his part, Sherlock was kind enough to wait for her to process all he'd told her about his first Connection, her death at the hands of a former lover, his descent into drugs, his recovery, and his shock to discover he'd been given another soul mate.

'I'm not her.'

Sherlock's hand twitched as though shocked. 'I don't want you to be.'

Molly turned her head to look at him, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. His eyes were wide and hopeful, taking her in like a dying man who had found haven. She blushed under his gaze. How could he find her attractive when he had described Irene as captivatingly beautiful and nearly as clever as he?

'She was beautiful, yes. As are you.'

She flinched in surprise, not realizing she had spoken her question aloud. When he brushed his thumb over her fingers once more, eliciting a thrill of electric current up her Heart Line, she shivered.

'Molly,' he whispered. 'I can't promise I will be an easy-going man. I actually can guarantee that I won't be.' He chuckled ruefully. 'But I can promise that I will try. I will try to be the man you deserve, the man who loves only  _one._ '

She closed her eyes and shook her head. 'I don't want that.'

'What?' He asked incredulously.

Smiling ever so slightly, Molly pulled her hand from his and brushed a curl from his forehead, feeling the thrum of her Heart Line tingle through her fingers. 'I don't ever want you to forget her, to stop loving her. She was a part of your life, someone who helped shape who you are today. And I shall forever be grateful to her for that.'

Stunned, Sherlock could only stare at the woman in the bed.

'All I ask,' Molly said, taking a deep breath. 'Is that you make room for me, give me a chance. I won't take her place and I don't  _ever_  want you to feel like I am. I don't want to be resented and I don't want to be resentful.' Her face became solemn and resolute. 'But neither will I take second place to the ghost of another woman.'

Grasping her wrist, Sherlock pressed a reverent kiss to her palm and felt the beat of her Heart Line against his lips. Strong, forgiving, understanding, and altogether lovely. Molly. His soul mate.

'You will never be second in my heart,' he promised. 'She was my past. You are my future.'

Molly felt tears sting her eyes at the sincerity in his voice.

'I don't often regret things.' He reached up and brushed away the trail of a tear that had fallen into her hair. 'But I fear I will regret the pain I've caused you for quite some time. Though not as much as I would have regretted losing you.'

Closing her eyes, she turned her face into his hand and felt the beat of his Heart Line against her cheek. 'I'm right here. My body will heal and, in time, my heart will, too.' Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled gently. 'The touching is certainly helping.'

He chuckled and once more laced his fingers with hers. As their Heart Lines linked and their veins shimmered in sync, he thanked whatever cosmic force or deity had been gracious enough to give him a second chance.


	23. Scholarly Pursuits and Deceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it possible if you'll make a Sherlolly "The Butterfly Lovers" AU? It's a Chinese Legend equivalent to Romeo and Juliet. What's wonderful about it is, the characters are scholars and it kinda reminds of Sherlolly. So if it's not much trouble?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used just the basic idea of it, since I’d rather they, you know, live. This drabble is based in the early 1900s, London, and the Butterfly Lovers is a written legend. Also, please suspend any doubts that this wouldn’t work with Sherlock being as observant as he is. :)

Molly’s eyes watched Sherlock intently from across the library. His curls hung over his forehead, his brow furrowed as he wrinkled his nose in contempt at whatever he was reading. She bit her lip to prevent the giggle from bursting out as he mouthed a few words in confused derision.

Her heart flipped as his fingers caressed the edges of the book and turned the page.

For three years, her heart had belonged to the man. He was brilliant and completely mad. And something about him had captivated her from the start. She saw the goodness in his chaos. She saw the sadness in his disdain. She saw the fear in his bluntness.

She saw _him._ But he’d never seen _her_.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes darted up and locked on hers. She flushed under the cap she wore, grateful for the distance between them. He quirked an eyebrow and waved her over.

Gathering her books, she slowly made her way to his table. Dropping her voice to the cockney, harsh tone she’d adopted for three years, she greeted him. ‘Sherlock.’

‘Matthew,’ he replied. ‘I understand you’ve once again surpassed me as the top student in chemistry.’

Molly smirked and plopped down across from him, crossing her arms over her chest. Her loose shirt covered a thick binding that hid her feminine qualities, something she’d grown accustomed to over the years.

‘What you going to do ‘bout it?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘There is still another month in the term. Many opportunities for you to fall behind.’

Molly chuckled low in her throat and rolled her eyes. ‘We’ll see.’ With a triumphant smile, she opened her books and resumed her studying, trying to concentrate with Sherlock in such close proximity. He watched her for a moment before returning to his own book. They had been friends since her first year. Her father had passed on, leaving her dowry-less and penniless, but with a brilliant mind hindered by her gender. So, piling her hair under a cap and adopting a young male’s outfit, she applied for the medical program at the university under the name ‘Matthew Hooper’, gaining acceptance almost immediately.

In her first year, she had met Sherlock Holmes, and developed an intense, yet friendly competition with him for the top marks. Now, with only a month left of the program, she was torn. On one hand, she was ready to relax the ‘Matthew’ façade and only adopt it for work hours. On the other hand, she and Sherlock would be going their separate ways. And her heart broke at the thought.

For three years, she’d managed to deceive him into believing she was a boy. The most observant man she had ever met, who wanted to be a ‘Consulting Detective,’ was completely oblivious to her deception. There were other times she was sure he had figured it out, his eyes would narrow at her and he’d tilt his head in thought, but then he’d abruptly shake himself out of it.  There were other times when she’d come to close to exposing her secret to him, but she never could work up the courage to say the words. She was too afraid he didn’t care enough about ‘Matthew’ as a friend to keep her secret.  

Molly sighed distractedly and turned the page, brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen loose from under her cap. Suddenly, across from her, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. She looked up at him in concern, noticing his eyes were wide and his cheeks tinged pink as he stared intently into his textbook. Shrugging it off, she resumed her reading.

Several minutes passed in silence. Then Sherlock slapped his book closed and leaned forward. ‘Matthew.’

Molly glanced up at him and raised her brows in question.

‘Have you heard of the legend of the Butterfly Lovers?’

She wrinkled her brow in thought. ‘No, I haven’t. Why?’

He didn’t answer. He stared at her a moment longer, then suddenly stood up and gestured for her to follow. Curious, Molly set her book down and followed. He led her through the stacks, past the Archaeology section and around the Shakespeare display into the Myths and Legends area, which boasted mostly Greek Mythology.

‘Sherlock, what are you doing?’ Molly whispered hoarsely. He ignored her and ran his fingers down the spines of the books, searching for one in particular.

With a cry of victory, he pulled out a worn text, the spine cracked from use. He flipped through the parchment pages as Molly watched curiously, her arms crossed.

When he reached what he was looking for, he held it out to her. She looked at him in confusion, but took the book. He smiled softly down at her and tilted his head encouragingly.

Her brow furrowed, she looked down at the page.

_The Butterfly Lovers._ She skimmed through the first few pages. Her heart started pounding and the blood fled her face as she began to understand the plot of the story. A girl masquerading as a boy in order to pursue scholarly studies.

Gulping, Molly’s hands trembled. _Oh, God. He knows._ Her heart froze in her chest.

Her thoughts frantically raced as she stared at the book. She’d made it almost three years. She was a month from graduating. Even under a false name, she would have the academic experience needed to be a doctor in pathology. It all stood on the edge of a knife. Now Sherlock knew her secret and her future was all crumbling around her. He would unmask her, negating all her work, making him the top student in all their classes. She would be expelled and most likely arrested for indecency and all the lies that came from her façade.

To her horror, tears filled her eyes. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at Sherlock. His smile of triumph abruptly dropped. Just as he opened his mouth, Molly shoved the book in his hands and sprinted away. She weaved through the stacks, abandoning her bag and books at the table, and rushed down the stairs to the exit. Vaguely, she heard Sherlock shouting ‘Matthew’ after her accompanied by harsh shushes from the librarians and other students.

Bursting onto the dank, London street, Molly took a left, shoving her way through the crowd. A stitch pulled in her side, but she pressed on, unsure of where she was going. But Sherlock’s voice carried over the bustle and cries of the newsies, getting closer with every step.

She broke left around a corner, her loose men’s shoes flapping against the cobblestone. Suddenly, a hand wrapped around her upper arm and jerked her around. Stumbling, she found herself face-first in the chest of Sherlock Holmes.

‘Let go of me, you great oaf!’ She shouted as she tried ineffectively to pull her arm from his iron-clad grip. Both were panting from their brief chase and Sherlock did not look amused as he hauled her into a nearby alley, away from the prying eyes of passerby.

Finally yanking her arm away, Molly shakily stepped away and crossed her arms over her chest. The tears of fear and despair she’d been fighting now fell freely.

Sherlock raked a hand through his tousled curls. Gesturing at her in exasperation, he huffed, ‘How did I not see it?’

Molly gulped loudly as he paced in front of her.

‘It’s so _obvious_!’ He cried out with a rueful smile. ‘The ever-present cap, the slight built, the somewhat feminine facial structure hidden in the cap’s shadow, the forced gruff of your voice, the slim fingers…’ She grimaced as he listed off all the deductions she’d desperately tried to keep him from making for three years.

‘Sherlock,’ she interrupted, her voice soft and natural. He stilled and stared at her in shock. ‘Please, just…’ She took a shaky breath, wringing her hands as she stared at him pleadingly. ‘I wanted to become a doctor. This was the only way, women are discouraged from studying at university, especially women without title or money. Please, please don’t tell anyone. I… I’ll do anything, I’ll let you take the top spots, I’ll get Professor Stamford to let you back in the labs, I’ll-mmphfff!’

Her eyes widened in utter shock as Sherlock lunged forward and crashed his lips against hers. She squeaked in surprise and tried to move away, but his arms slipped around her waist and pulled her close.

As he nibbled at her bottom lip, she slowly melted against him, molding her body against his. His hand crept up her back and caressed her neck, sending shivers and goosebumps along her spine. She felt his hand play with the soft hairs at the nape of her neck before slipping under her cap. With a flick of his wrist, he pulled the cap from her head, letting her hair billow out around her shoulders. As his fingers threaded through the strands, she moaned into the kiss and slid her own fingers into his curls, letting the soft hairs tickle her palms. He grunted and, if possible, pulled her closer.

When the need for air became unbearable, they broke apart, panting and looking thoroughly debauched.

Sherlock smiled softly down at her as he reverently fingered the tousled strands of her hair. ‘Beautiful and brilliant. A rare combination.’

Molly blushed under his appreciative stare. ‘So, you won’t… tell anyone?’

Laughing, Sherlock pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. ‘No, I won’t. After all, it wouldn’t do for my fiancée to be imprisoned during our courtship.’

‘Your…what?’ Molly breathed, feeling suddenly faint.

‘Mmm, the man who’s tested my intellect for three years and has become my dearest friend is, in fact, a woman who is not only beautiful, but _nearly_ my intellectual equal.’ He winked cheekily at her huff of indignation. ‘What makes you think I’m ever going to let her go?’

Blushing madly, Molly felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘Well, how forward of you. I don’t know how to respond to that. I mean, what kind of man proposes marriage without knowing the Christian name of his intended?’

He narrowed his eyes at her sassy retort and punished her with a firm kiss. ‘What kind of woman wantonly kisses a man in an alley?’

‘What kind of man chases a woman down the street and accosts her in an alley?’ She quipped.

Chuckling, Sherlock brushed a hand down her cheek. Dropping his voice to a low rumble, he spoke roughly, ‘Well, what kind of woman successfully masquerades as a man for three years just to pursue studies in science and pathology?’

Sliding her hands down his chest and standing on her tiptoes, Molly smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Your kind of woman?’

He threw his head back and laughed, deep and rich. ‘Yes, yes, my kind of woman.’

Wrapping her hands around his head, Molly pulled him down for another kiss.

‘Molly,’ she mumbled against his lips. ‘My name is Molly Hooper.’

Resting his forehead against hers, he stared at her in complete adoration. ‘Molly _Holmes._ That sounds just about perfect.’


	24. Motherly Manipulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Molly's Mum and Mummy Holmes have become friends without knowing that their children are acquainted with each other. They try to set up Sherlock and Molly with each other. Shenanigans ensue.

 

Wandering through the flower shop, Violet Holmes picked out a variety of colorful blooms. There was no pattern to the bouquet she was creating, but Martha wouldn’t mind, she preferred an array of colour. After all that Mrs Hudson had done for Violet’s son, flowers seemed hardly comparable, but Martha was ever so grateful. So Violet never stopped by Baker Street without a small offering of thanks.

Her phone pinged with a message. Digging through her enormous bag, she finally found the device and quickly read the text from her son.

_Can’t make it tonight. Experiment. Sorry. SH_

Violet sighed in disappointment.

‘Everything all right?’ A woman next to her asked, her hands laden with blooms.

Violet smiled ruefully and dropped her phone back in her purse. ‘My youngest boy, William. He’s trying to cancel our outing tonight.  _Again._ ’

The woman frowned. ‘How unfortunate. Nothing wrong, I hope.’

Violet shook her head with a fond exasperation. ‘Oh, heavens, no. He simply hates going out and will come up with the most improbable excuse to skip it when my husband and I are in town.’

‘Sounds quite like my daughter. My Margaret is as sweet as they come, but the minute I mention I want to go to the shopping district, suddenly she has a work emergency. Honestly,’ the woman laughed, ‘what kind of emergency warrants a pathologist?’

Violet’s eyebrows rose and she grinned in camaraderie. ‘It seems our children are of similar mind.’ She extended a hand in greeting. ‘I’m Violet, by the way, mother of two quite obstinate boys masquerading as men.’

‘Anne,’ the other woman laughed and shifted her flowers to shake Violet’s hand. ‘Mother of one brilliant, shy girl.’

‘A pleasure, Anne.’ Violet smiled. ‘Would you care to join me for a cuppa at the café round the corner? I would most enjoy speaking with someone who understands my motherly woes.’

Anne nodded with a bright grin. ‘Oh, that does sound lovely.’

Laden with flowers, the women made their purchases and meandered down the street, easily settling in to a comfortable friendship as they discussed their worrisome children.

* * *

As Molly climbed the stairs to her flat that evening, her phone chimed with an incoming message.

_I need you at the lab. Please. –SH_

She frowned. Sherlock had been at the lab nearly all afternoon, having left when she did. After he’d solved the Faux-Moriarty scandal, they’d grown closer, spending most of their time together at the lab or at their flats. But he’d yet to make any sort of declaration of his feelings, keeping her on the fence between friendship and something… more.

_What for?_

_My mother is trying to guilt me into an evening ‘on the town.’ I need an excuse to escape the torture. Please. –SH_

Even as her heart skipped a beat at the needy (for Sherlock) plea, she declined.

_Sorry, but my mum is in town, too. And I’m spending my evening with her._

_Molly. Please. –SH_

_John and Graham are otherwise occupied with their females. You are my only hope. –SH_

_Molly. –SH_

_Molly! –SH_

_I’ll even clean up after myself. –SH_

_Is this because I didn’t thank you for the coffee this afternoon? –SH_

_Thank you. –SH_

_Now please help me. –SH_

Ignoring the beeps of his pleadings, Molly slipped her phone into her pocket and walked down the hall to her flat. She had no sooner opened the door then her mother accosted her.

‘Margaret, quickly now, go change!’

Molly stared at her mother dumbly, her bag half off her shoulder. Slowly sliding out of her work shoes, Molly frowned. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘Just go! Put on that periwinkle dress you bought last summer and have  _never_ worn. Oh, my dear, you would be just darling in that! Yes, wear that and brush on a little makeup,’ her mother sniffed delicately. ‘You smell of death. If you hurry, you’ll have time to take a quick wash.’

Molly rolled her eyes. ‘I work in a morgue, so of course I’m going to smell like death. Now, what’s going on? Are we going out tonight?’

Anne Hooper simply smiled and ushered her daughter into the bathroom.

Not one to disappoint, Molly obediently showered, all the while grumbling about her mother’s annual week-long visit. Quickly drying her hair and plaiting it in a classic French braid, Molly slipped out into the hall and into her bedroom. Mum had laid out the dress, no doubt having had to dig into the deep recesses of her closet. A modest halter top, the dress was a soft cotton that gathered at her waist and flowed down around her knees. Paired with her favourite cardigan, a pale yellow number, Molly had to admit that she felt… pretty.

‘Oh, my Margaret, you look positively beautiful!’

Molly flushed in embarrassment under her mother’s gushing praise. ‘Thanks. Now, will you tell me what’s going on? Where are we going?’

Anne simply smiled and placed a single, yellow daisy in the weaves of Molly’s braid.

With bubbling excitement, she pulled Molly out the door, barely pausing to let her daughter grab her purse and keys.

* * *

 Sherlock glared at his phone. _Of all the times for my… Molly to suddenly be unhelpful_. He grumbled to himself as Mummy held another tie to his neck. He’d been tiptoeing around his feelings for Molly for years. He sighed inwardly. He spent most of his time not on cases with her or thinking of her. It was only a matter of time before he let something slip or pounced her. But she deserved better than that. She deserved courting and a full explanation to erase any doubts she may have. But the courage to take that final leap and open himself up to her was just out of reach.

Finally satisfied with her choice, Mummy nodded and handed him the powder-blue length of fabric. He sneered down at it.

‘Why must I wear a tie? I  _never_ wear ties.’

One single quirk of her eyebrow was all it took for him to obediently wrap the tie under the collar of his black dress shirt, tying it expertly.

‘Wonderful. Oh, my William, you look so dashing!’ Mummy gushed, straightening the knot and smiling up at him proudly. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but refrained from commenting. His shoulder was still sore from earlier when he insulted the flowers she’d brought for Mrs. Hudson.  

‘Mother,’ Sherlock sighed and stepped away, running his finger under the too-tight collar. ‘ _Must_ we go out tonight? You know how I despise mindless entertainment.’

Pursing her lips, Mummy placed her hands on her hips and immediately made Sherlock feel like he was ten years old again. ‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I rarely come visit without your father and I insist you take me out for an enjoyable evening to alleviate my  _own_ boredom. Now, come back here and let me fix your hair. You are in desperate need of a trim,’ she sighed as he slumped forward and allowed her to twist his frizzy curls back into some semblance of order.

‘May I at least know the place to which you are dragging me tonight?’

Mummy hummed in answer and patted his cheeks with a mischievous twinkle in her blue-gray eyes. ‘Let us be off.’

Slipping her arm through his, Mummy tugged his reluctant body out of the flat and into the London night.

* * *

‘So, who are we waiting for?’ Molly raised her eyebrows at her mother over the rim of her glass as she sipped the drink.

Anne blinked innocently and shifted her gaze back to her daughter. ‘I don’t know  _what_ you’re talking about. I’m waiting for no one.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Molly rolled her eyes as her mother’s gaze drifted back to the door behind Molly. If her mother wanted to meet up with some guy she’d met during the day, then that was fine with Molly. She’d just rather be at home, relaxing, instead of sitting in the middle of a dance club/bar. Granted, it was classier and more toned down than most, but it really wasn’t Molly’s scene.

Suddenly, a man appeared beside their small table. They both turned to look, Molly blushing self-consciously as she realized there was a handsome stranger staring down at her. He held out a hand to her. ‘If I may be so bold,’ he asked in a soft, American accent, ‘I’d love to claim the next dance with you.’

‘O-okay.’ Molly tentatively placed her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor, ignoring the protesting of her mother behind her.

* * *

 

Sherlock groaned as the cab stopped in front of a dance club.

‘No complaints, William. I want to dance.’ Mummy grinned widely as they climbed from the car and entered the building. Begrudgingly, Sherlock had to admit the atmosphere was subdued, classier than he had expected. The music leaned more towards classic dances than the atrocities currently playing in nightclubs. Mummy looked around the room, searching for something. Or someone.

‘I knew it,’ Sherlock grumbled. ‘You’re setting me up.’

Absentmindedly patting his arm, Mummy said, ‘You’ll adore her, if she’s anything like Anne described.’

He wrinkled his nose. He would never  _adore_ anyone as he did Molly. ‘Who is this ‘Anne’?’

‘There she is!’ Mummy cried out in triumph and began weaving her way through the tables to the other side of the dance floor.

Sherlock sighed heavily, but knew that  _not_ following her would be a mistake of catastrophic consequences.

There weren’t too many people in the club, most were dancing or sipping brightly colored drinks. His mind raced with ways to escape without enduring his mother’s wrath.

As he sidestepped a table, his gaze moved over the dancers. Several more experienced couples were displaying their proficiency in footwork. He admired their skill for a moment before a pair of familiar calves swept across his line of sight. He froze in his tracks as his eyes slowly traveled up, taking in the periwinkle blue dress that twirled happily around a slim waist, the halter top that curved around a familiar chest, and the brown hair in a gentle French braid that swayed with the beat of the music.

Molly.

She smiled at the strange man holding her in his arms and her laughter drifted over the music.

_No._

Before he knew it, he was cutting through the dance floor. The man twirled Molly out and, with unmatched skill, Sherlock wrapped an arm around her waist and expertly swept her into his embrace.

‘Oh!’ She cried out in surprise, her hands resting on his chest, taking a moment to realize what had happened. ‘Sherlock! What are you doing here?’

The man she’d been dancing with marched over and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to cut back in. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

Sherlock shrugged him off without breaking his gaze from Molly, enjoying the way her body molded into his perfectly. ‘Go back to America. And your wife.’

‘Sherlock!’ Molly glared up at him as the other man slunk away. He smirked triumphantly and spun them around quickly, tightening his grip on her waist as she stumbled in surprise.

‘Now, Molly, I saved you from future heartbreak. Don’t you think that warrants a reward?’ He smiled winningly and lowered his head.

‘What?’ Molly practically shrieked, trying to step away.

Panicking at her reaction, Sherlock spoke the first thing that came to mind. ‘My mother has decided to set me up with someone, and I’d rather not spend an evening with some air-headed goldfish. What better way to deter her than to appear to be involved with someone else?’

Molly fumed at his crassness and inconsideration of her feelings. With all her pent-up anger and heartbreak, she raised her foot and brought the slight heel down hard on his instep. He immediately released her, howling in pain as he hopped on one foot.

Whirling about, Molly stalked off the floor. Her mother was watching the entire scene with wide eyes, a gray-haired woman next to her was struggling hard to contain her laughter. Swiping her bag, Molly snapped, ‘I’m sorry, mum, but I find the atmosphere here less than tolerable.’ She glared over her shoulder at the oncoming Consulting Detective. ‘You can stay, if you want, but I’m leaving.’

‘Molly! Wait!’ Sherlock called after her, his voice tinged with pain. He hobbled around the tables between them. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it quite like  _that!_ ’

With a hurt glare, Molly crossed her arms and called over her shoulder. ‘You can just… bugger off, Sherlock.’

‘Molly, what’s going on?’ Anne interjected with a worried frown.

‘Mum?  _Molly_?’ Violet flicked her gaze between them, understanding dawning. ‘Your Margaret is my William’s  _Molly_?’ She exclaimed in surprised delight.

‘ _Sherlock_?’ Anne’s eyes widened in shock and she turned to her new friend. ‘Your William is my Molly’s  _Sherlock_?’

Gobsmacked, Molly stared at the women. ‘You mean, you… you were setting me up? With  _Sherlock?’_

Finally stumbling up to them, Sherlock stared at his mother with an inscrutable expression. ‘You were setting me up with  _Molly?’_

‘Well, obviously, I didn’t know Margaret was your  _Molly._ ’ Violet sniffed. ‘I’d given up on you acting on your feelings for her long ago.’

Molly blinked in shock. ‘His… what?!’

Sherlock reached out and cupped her elbow. ‘Molly, there’s... something I need to tell you. Perhaps we should-’

‘I’m an ‘air-headed goldfish’?’ Molly turned to him, fists clenching at her sides.

‘No, no, that wasn’t… I wasn’t referring to  _you_ … Well, not really, how was I to know you…’ Raking a hand through his hair, he groaned. ‘Can we please speak in private?’

Molly reluctantly allowed herself to be led to a less occupied area of the room. Anne and Violet craned their necks unashamedly to watch.

Whatever was being said was heated if Molly’s crossed arms and Sherlock’s fierce gaze were anything to go by. 

‘How fortuitous,’ Violet commented as they saw Molly stomp her foot in anger. She smiled at the spunk in the younger woman who, despite her diminutive size, seemed to be able to put Sherlock in his place when need be.

Anne tilted her head. ‘Was it, though? Do you think, maybe on some level, we both knew?’ Her heart warmed as Sherlock brushed a wayward lock of hair from Molly’s face and tucked it behind the lonely flower in her hair. Molly melted slightly, but retained a furious expression, jabbing him in the chest as she made a point.

‘Well, however it came about,’ Violet said as she picked up her glass as the conversation between their children reached a critical peak. ‘It appears to be successful.’

They broke into wide smiles as Sherlock suddenly lunged forward and stopped Molly’s rant with a blistering kiss. Molly struggled momentarily then abruptly relaxed, letting her arms fall gently over his shoulders, her fingers digging into his hair. His hands cupped her face gently before sliding down to the small of her back, pulling her up and closer, deepening the kiss.

Anne and Violet tapped their glasses together in victory.

Several minutes passed as they reveled in their triumph. But when their children showed no signs of slowing down, the mothers pushed away from their table. ‘I believe it’s time we take them home,’ Violet commented as she slipped some bills under her glass.

‘We can drop them off at Sherlock’s.’ Anne grinned ruefully. ‘Molly has a spare room, I think it best if you stay at hers with me tonight.’

Laughing, Violet laced her arm through her friend’s. ‘Agreed. Now, what do you think about yellow and aubergine for wedding colours?’

‘Oh, my dear, you’ve read my mind.’


	25. Of Childhood Beds and Angry Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Hiya! I've seen a few fics where Sherlock and Molly get it on in one of their childhood bedrooms. I would so love to see what your take on this. Thanks!

Slowly and quietly, Sherlock turned the doorknob, wincing as it creaked loudly in the empty hallway. He slipped inside the dark room andshut the door silently behind him. The moonlight caressed the small lump underthe covers on the bed, familiar curves he missed holding.

On tiptoes, he made his way to the side of the bed and gently pulled the covers back. The lump shifted at the cold air accompanied by a soft groan.

‘Sh-lock?’

He slid onto the bed and immediately pulled the covers back up.

The lump turned over and he was met with the sleepy gaze of his girlfriend. ‘Whatareyoudoing?’ Molly mumbled softly.

‘I missed you,’ he pouted, slipping his hands around her and spooning his body against hers.

Too tired to argue, Molly sighed and closed her eyes again, chasing the sleep he’d woken her from.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had other things on his mind than sleeping. 

The hand he held against her stomach began a slow, sensuous journey south. Just as he reached the band of her knickers, she woke up fully and slapped his hand away.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She whispered.

‘I told you I missed you,’ he growled against her ear, his hand once more heading into dangerous territory.

‘We are in your parents’ house!’ She hissed angrily and slapped his hand again.

Nibbling her neck, he persisted. ‘They’re asleep. And unlikely to wake up save a nuclear apocalypse.’

Molly groaned as he laid passionate kisses along her collarbone. ‘Mmmm… wait, no! No, get off me!’ She twisted out of his arms and turned to face him. ‘This is why we had separate bedrooms!’

‘Yes, and if my parents really expected us to stay apart, they would have put me in the spare room, not in Mycroft’s.’ He shuddered.

‘Oh,’ she whispered harshly. ‘So as long as we have their ‘unspoken’ permission, we’re allowed to do stuff?’

Blinded by his desire, Sherlock missed the dangerous tone in her voice. His eyes smoldered and he scooted closer, tracing a finger along the familiar curve of her side. ‘Mmm, ye _p._ ’

Suddenly, he was alone in the bed and shivering. Molly stood over him, wrapped in the covers she’d yanked away, the moonlight shining around her like an angel. With a haughty flick of her hair, she stormed toward the door, covers trailing behind her.

Groaning in frustration, Sherlock leaped from the bed and stomped on the train of her covers. She stumbled as they slipped from her grasp, leaving her vulnerable to the cold air in an oversized tee shirt.

‘Sherlock!’ She hissed, scrambling to pick up the covers.

Taking advantage of her distraction, he swept her, blankets and all, into his arms. He waited until she stopped kicking before setting her back on the bed. Her arms were crossed and she was glaring at him fiercely.

Realizing he had been a bit ‘not good,’ Sherlock laid down beside her and wrapped an arm over her rigid body. He brushed an apologetic kiss to her cheek and was relieved to feel her relax a bit. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured.

‘Sherlock,’ she sighed and uncrossed her arms. ‘I know being in a… relationship is new to you. And your libido is like that of a 15-year-old boy.’

He sniffed in offense. Molly turned on her side and laid her cheek against his bare chest.

‘I never said that was a bad thing.’ She smiled cheekily. ‘But I’d really rather not… do… anything while your parents are within a five-mile radius. It feels… weird. Like they’d  _know_. And I’d never be able to look them in the eyes again.’

‘Very well.’ He sighed dramatically.

They settled into a companionable silence. Sherlock’s hand brushed up and down Molly’s spine, a soothing rhythm. Her hand drew small circles over the scars on his stomach.

They were beginning to drowse when Molly mumbled sleepily against his chest, ‘I’ll make it up to you when we get home.’

Sherlock grinned wickedly as he glanced down at her. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’

‘Mmm, I certainly hope so.’


	26. Of Airport Terminals and Exaggerated Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: How about some FutureLock? Sherlock regaling his and Molly's grandchildren on how they finally got together as a couple. That would be so super! Thank you!

Molly straightened her shoulders and readjusted the grip on her carryon. Her lip trembled horribly and tears ran down her cheeks as the queue to board moved forward slightly. Embarrassed, she brushed the tears away roughly.

It had finally come. The last straw. The day she gave up on Sherlock Holmes.

Everything had come crashing down after Janine and Magnussen, then Faux-Moriarty. And her heart could take no more. He never treated her as anything more than an asset. And she couldn’t watch him get killed by his recklessness. So, she was taking her heart and moving on. To America, as a matter of fact. Sherlock would move on and find another pathologist, probably one who wasn’t so pathetically heartsick over him.

Suddenly, a familiar baritone broke through the clattering airport sounds.

‘Molly! Molly Hooper!’

She stiffened at the shout. Turning, she peeked around the people behind her to see a familiar head of black curls bounding through the terminal. Her eyes widened in shock as Sherlock pushed past travelers, narrowing in on her.

She stepped out of line with a horrified, yet confused expression. ‘Sherlock? What are you doing here?’

‘You can’t,’ he panted as he ran up to her. ‘You can’t go.’

Molly rolled her eyes. ‘I can. And I  _am._ ’ She turned away, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder.

Sherlock reached out and whirled her back, his arms locking around her waist. Her carryon clattered to the floor beside them as she struggled against his hold.

‘What are you doing? Let me go!’

By now, they’d gathered a small crowd. All the words he’d wanted to say failed him, so he did the one thing he’d been wanting to do for three years. He kissed her.

The moment his lips touched hers, Molly melted against him, her anger dissipating. She sighed into his mouth as he masterfully deepened the kiss. Both were ignorant of the cheers and mutterings around them.

Pulling away with a dazed smile, Molly grinned up at him. He smirked triumphantly down at her before immediately dropping to one knee.

‘Molly Hooper, you are the most beautiful, brilliant woman I know.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, flipping it open to reveal a beautiful diamond solitaire ring. ‘Will you marry me?’

Her eyes widened in delighted surprise. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ She cried out, launching herself into his arms with a joyful sob and plastering his face with kisses. He caught her around the waist and chuckled at her exuberance. Turning her face with his hand, he guided her stray kisses to the one place he wanted her lips to be. On his.

* * *

‘…and with a final shout of ‘yes,’ she jumped me!’ Sherlock leaned down, his eyes alight as he regaled his captive audience. ‘I wasn’t prepared for the assault and it knocked the breath out of me, but she didn’t notice, too intent on kissing every part of my face she could reach. After that, I insisted we marry immediately and contacted a certain government official to speed up the process. We were married the next day and have been happily together ever since.’

‘Is that so?’

Three heads turned to the doorway in surprise and a trio of small voices cried out, ‘Nana!’

Sherlock’s eyes widened and his cheeks tinged pink guiltily as his audience turned its attention to Molly.

‘Nana, is it true you knocked Grandfather over?’

‘Did you really almost leave him?’

‘Why did jump on him?’

Molly placed her hands on her hips. ‘Now, those are very good questions.’

‘I thought you were taking a walk with Georgina and Claire,’ Sherlock said in false indifference, his eyes shifting ever so slightly as he glanced at his wife, her beautiful hair now more white than brown.

‘We didn’t get far, the pregnancy is tiring Georgina out something awful. So I decided to come see what tales you are weaving to my grandchildren.’ She smiled knowingly and walked over to his chair, settling herself on the arm. ‘Please,’ she gestured to the eager ears waiting for answers. ‘Continue.’

Sherlock stared at the expectant faces of his grandchildren, his mind racing. He breathed a sigh of relief when their parents suddenly called from the other room for the children to start preparing for bed.

With a chorus of disappointed groans, they hugged their grandparents good night and slumped from the room.

‘Sherlock,’ Molly said with a smile, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘Were you padding our proposal story?’

He shifted in his seat, looking anywhere else but at his wife. Even after forty years of marriage, he hadn’t developed an immunity to those brown, doe eyes of hers.

She slid down into the chair and pushed his side until he made room for her to cuddle next to him. It was their favourite position. Neither one on top or underneath, but next to each other. Side by side, as equals.

A pout on his lips, Sherlock turned his face away.

Molly caressed the wrinkles around his eyes and brushed the silver curls around his temple. He shivered and reluctantly relaxed his frown. She knew it was a dirty trick, but it was the quickest way to appease him when he was in a strop.

‘Sherlock, look at me,’ she asked softly. He turned his head slightly, but still refused to catch her gaze. Shaking her head fondly, Molly pressed a kiss to his cheek.

‘I like the original story better,’ she whispered in his ear. His nose twitched in annoyance. Molly smiled wickedly and casually fiddled with her well-loved pair of rings. ‘You remember, when I was already  _on_ the plane and you called in an emergency deplane and got arrested, shouting ‘marry me!’ as they dragged you from the terminal. I especially liked the part where I had to wait two days until Mycroft had you released before I could finally get an explanation. And a kiss.’

‘Forty bloody years. Am I ever going to live that down?’ he grumbled, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. 

‘Nope,’ Molly replied cheerily. She cupped his cheek and pulled his lips down to hers, appeasing him with a delightfully long kiss. He moaned in frustration when she broke away. Laughing happily, she stood up and went to tuck the grandchildren into their various beds and sleeping bags.

Sherlock watched her leave, his heart feeling full and blessed. However their relationship had  _started_ didn’t matter. What mattered was that it did.


	27. Chocolate Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Please, please, a Sherlolly family fic for this coming Easter?

Sitting in his favourite chair on the patio, Sherlock smiled as his wife’s arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind. He breathed a sigh of utter contentment. Propping her chin on his shoulder, Molly followed his line of sight. 

Laughing children raced up and down the slope behind the cottage as they rolled their eggs to the bottom. Georgina, the oldest Holmes grandchild, was directing the younger children how to properly play the game. Mycroft’s twins, Nicholas and Mark, toddled along behind their cousin, in awe of the 8-year-old and doing their best to obey her orders and please her. Julia Watson sat at the top of the hill, content to watch the proceedings and giggle at her older brother when Harry was toppled over by an overenthusiastic Gregory Holmes, who was chasing after his egg. The oldest Watson child, Claire, stood sentry at the bottom of the hill, ensuring none of her charges sped past her into the creek.

‘Has Mummy finished hiding the eggs?’ Sherlock asked without looking away from the children.

Molly laughed lightly and tightened her hold on him. ‘Mmm, just about. She’s done the front garden and the downstairs, so it’s just the bedrooms she has to finish. Tell me, when you were little, did she hide them in the most extraordinarily obscure places, too?’

He chuckled and pulled her around to sit on his lap, settling his hand protectively on her growing belly. ‘Oh, yes. There was one year that I spent the entire day looking for my last bloody egg and it was nearly nighttime before I found it.’

She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Really? The great Sherlock Holmes, almost outsmarted by an Easter Egg Hunt?’

‘It was a brilliant hiding spot.’ He defended himself with a pout.

Tracing the buttons of his shirt, Molly smiled up at him coyly. ‘So where was it?’

‘The sodding tea kettle.’

She frowned. ‘But that’s a pretty common hiding sp-’

‘Yes, it is,’ he interrupted. ‘But at five, I hadn’t quite mastered the art of deciphering someone’s trickery, so when Mummy poured her tea that morning, I assumed the kettle was out of commission for the hunt. She was tricky,’ he grumbled. ‘She washed the egg, placed it in the kettle, and when she boiled the water for her tea, it cooked the bloody egg.’

Molly buried her face in his shoulder as she laughed. Sherlock huffed indignantly.

Just then, the back door opened, and the matriarch of the Holmes family called for her grandchildren. ‘Let the hunt begin!’

Immediately dropping their racing eggs, the children sprinted for the house. Mummy Holmes handed out small, wicker baskets to each child as they rushed by, reminding them that each was to find ten eggs only.

Watching over Sherlock’s shoulder, Molly smiled fondly at her children. Georgina and Gregory pouted at the directions, wanting to make it into a competition. The twins and the Watson children, however, had no such complaint and hurried off to find their eggs.

The clatter of children scurrying through the house soon faded into the background. A few minutes of silent rest had passed before Molly pulled away from his shoulder and looked at him with wide eyes and a smile.

‘You know what I am craving right now?’

Sherlock bit back a groan. ‘Something I’m going to have to get up and bring to you?”

Smiling at her husband, Molly blinked sweetly. It had taken years, but she’d managed to thaw that heart of his and became an expert at tugging it in her direction. ‘If you do, I’ll share it with you.’ She traced a finger over his chest as she dangled her offer tantalizingly.

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘As long as it’s not one of those nasty combinations you’ve been scarfing down for the past month.’ She punched his arm lightly in offense. Adopting a lovesick expression, he cuddled her close. ‘So, what is it you desire, my dearest wife?’

‘Some of those Cadbury chocolate eggs your mother hid from the children. And from you, though I  _know_ you know where they are.’

Sherlock smiled wickedly. ‘Indeed I do.’ As smoothly as possible, he lifted her into his arms and stood, then set her back down with a loving kiss. ‘But if I get caught, I’m blaming you. Mummy adores you too much to be angry with you.’

‘Do what you must.’ Molly waved him away with a smirk. ‘But hurry back, I am  _really_ craving them.’

He hadn’t done more than straighten up when she spoke again. ‘And maybe some pickles?’

He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and, leaning down, narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What for?’

Shrugging, Molly looked anywhere but at him, her voice soft and innocent. ‘I’d like some to eat… with my chocolate eggs.’

Groaning, Sherlock dropped his head down in exasperation. ‘Be grateful I love you enough to put up with this disgusting craving period of your pregnancy.’

Smiling broadly, Molly lifted his face and kissed him firmly, then shoved him toward the house. ‘I am. Now bring me my chocolate.’


	28. Of Hiding Places and Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Can you please make a fic in which Molly almost dies taking a bullet for Sherlock or something like that and Sherlock tries to save her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A angsty-drabble set in the 1800s with Molly and Sherlock in an arranged marriage. Enjoy, my dear!

‘I warned you to stay out of my way, Mister Holmes. And you still didn’t listen.’ The taunting voice laughed, echoing in a disturbing way and sending shivers up and down Molly’s spine. She peeked around the corner of her hiding spot in the warehouse.

Richard Brook, Jim Moriarty, she corrected herself, stood across from her husband. Sherlock had his back to her, but she could see the pistol he pointed at Moriarty. With quiet steps, Molly slipped around the pillar and moved closer, still remaining hidden.

‘I don’t take orders from criminals.’ Sherlock’s calm baritone reverberated through the room.

Molly peered around the pillar just as Moriarty shrugged his shoulders in a nonchalant manner. ‘I expected nothing less. But that doesn’t mean I won’t follow through on my threat.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Sherlock replied. ‘I believe you intend to burn the heart out of me.’ He tsked and cocked the hammer of his pistol. ‘Unfortunately for you, I don’t have one.’

‘But we both know that’s not quite true.’ Moriarty tilted his head knowingly and smirked, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. ‘Tell me, how is the missus? Seb’s told me so much about her, the lonely wife of the great Sherlock Holmes.’

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly.

Moriarty sauntered closer to Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. ‘Haven’t you met Seb? My right-hand assassin?’ He snapped his fingers and laughed mechanically as he pointed at Sherlock. ‘Oh, that’s right. You know him as Barnaby, your wife’s footman.’

There was pin-drop silence.

Molly trembled under the knowledge that her footman, her friend, was an assassin working for the man trying to bring down her husband. It felt surreal, like the plot of a fanciful book. But when she saw the slight hesitation in Sherlock’s grip before he slowly released the hammer and lowered the pistol, reality crashed around her.

‘Very good,’ Moriarty mockingly praised, his applause making Molly cringe. ‘Lesson 1, Mister Holmes, never underestimate me. I knew where your heart lay long ago, despite your desperate attempts to ignore it.’

But that would mean… Molly’s thoughts flailed as she tried to piece together Moriarty’s implication. As she turned her head to peer around the pillar, she could see that Sherlock had surrendered his gun.

‘Leave her alone,’ he spat. ‘She has nothing to do with your game.’

Moriarty cackled and waved the gun mockingly. ‘Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Haven’t you figured it out yet?’

While Moriarty turned away, Molly snuck to the next closest pillar. He brushed down his suit and whirled about with a wicked smile. ‘Your dear wife, forced into a marriage you did not want, has fallen in love with you. And you, oh, you, Sherlock!’ He danced a gleeful jig, pointing Sherlock’s pistol at him carelessly. ‘You oblivious idiot! You never saw it. You made it quite clear from the beginning that you had no interest in her, in marriage, or in anything either of those… entailed. And you’ve broken her heart! But what of your heart?’

Sherlock flinched subtly.

Now close enough to see the way Moriarty’s eyes danced in wickedness, Molly felt a horrific sense of foreboding.

‘She is your weakness.’ Moriarty dipped his chin down and peered up at him with piercing eyes. ‘But she is my trophy, my angel. I will kill you and while your body rots in the Thames, I will retrieve my prize.’

Bile rose in her throat at the thought.

Moriarty’s grin abruptly dropped. ‘I am the devil. What greater reward for me than the heart of an angel? A shame, Sherlock, that she will never know of your own heart. Too bad,’ he tsked and lifted the pistol to point directly over Sherlock’s heart. ‘I win, Mister Holmes.’

Time seemed to slow down as Molly scrambled from her hiding spot as Moriarty flicked the hammer back. Flinging herself in front of Sherlock, she heard the reverberation of the shot echo in the cavernous room. A dull pain hit her shoulder as the bullet impacted and she stumbled back into Sherlock.

She felt her legs crumble underneath her, but she did not fall. Glancing down, she saw the blood staining her nightgown under her coat and Sherlock’s arm wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her against his chest. Slowly, he lowered her to the ground.

Moriarty’s eyes widened in horror and he dropped the pistol. It clattered to the floor.

‘No,’ he breathed. His face distorted in rage and he shouted, 'No!'

The pain in her shoulder grew and her vision started to blacken around the edges, blood pounding in her ears. Sherlock laid her out and placed her head in his lap, brushing her hair from her face. His eyes were wide and terrified. There was suddenly a plethora of shouts and footsteps. She turned her head slightly to see all of Scotland Yard pouring into the room, led by Greg Lestrade, who immediately restrained the shock-stricken Moriarty. Sherlock’s hand cupped her cheek and brought her gaze back to him.

‘Molly, Molly, please.’ His voice faded in and out as he whipped the ever-present ascot from his neck and pressed it to her wound. A flash of pain shot through her and she groaned. Something dripped onto her cheek. Tears, she realized, Sherlock’s tears. ‘Please don’t do this to me,’ he begged, his usual cold demeanor abandoned to sheer vulnerable terror.

Suddenly, she felt herself being lifted into strange arms. ‘We need to get her to the surgery. Now.’ The familiar voice of John Watson spoke above her. The last thing she saw before she surrendered to the darkness was Sherlock’s tear-stricken face over the shoulder of the army doctor as he carried her away.

* * *

 

Her chest rose and fell steadily. A miracle. At least, according to John. Sherlock brushed a trembling hand over the inside of her wrist, thanking whatever deity allowed it that her heart still beat steadily beneath his fingertips. He lifted her limp hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles, closing his eyes as he prayed for her to wake up.

‘Come back to me, Molly,’ he whispered.

She’d been unconscious for nigh on a week. The bullet had been removed from her shoulder, courtesy of Doctor Watson’s surgical skills. But her body was still recovering from the loss of blood and the shock to her system.

Sherlock had not left her side since that night for more than five minute spans to tend to himself. His eyes were hollow and sunken, his hair in utter disarray.

Sighing, Sherlock placed her hand on top of the other and sat back in his chair, running a hand down his haggard face. ‘I’ve never loved before,’ he admitted hoarsely. ‘I knew you felt deeply for me.’ He swallowed thickly against the lump in his throat and leaned forward on his knees. ‘And I’m sorry… I’m sorry it took you sacrificing yourself for me to realize that I feel deeply for you, as well.’

A gentle sigh broke the silence following his quiet admission. He jerked his head up and leapt to his feet when he saw Molly’s eyelids fluttering open. ‘Molly?’

She groaned and blinked up at him blearily. ‘Did you mean it?’ She whispered hesitantly.

Sherlock froze and his heart skipped a beat. He hadn't intended for her to hear. And he was afraid. Afraid of being weak. But the white gauze on her shoulder reminded him that her love was powerful enough to keep him alive. He knew that were he to accept his love for her, he would do whatever it takes to keep her safe, as well.

He smiled and traced a finger down her cheek, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. She sighed happily as he pulled away and he smirked proudly at the red of her kissed lips and the glow on her once deathly pale face.

‘Yes. I meant it,’ he admitted huskily. ‘I love you, Lady Holmes.’

Her eyes sparkled as she beamed up at him. ‘And I, you, my dear husband.’


	29. Of Big Sisters and Speeches

Sherlock folded his hands on the table and narrowed his eyes at his charge. Her wide brown eyes stared back with determination.

Clearing her throat, 7-year-old Georgina shifted in her seat and mirrored her father’s posture, folding her hands before her. ‘Father,’ she began, her voice high and sweet. ‘I assume you know why I have asked to speak with you today.’

He tilted his head slightly, resisting the urge to smile and making a mental note to limit her time spent with Uncle Mycroft. He was beginning to have too much of an influence on her vocabulary and, by the spread of notes before her, she was mimicking her uncle’s obsessive need for a plan of attack.

‘As a matter of fact, Georgina, I do not.’

Glancing over her papers, Georgina began her speech. ‘Well, as you know, I am an only child.’

‘I am aware,’ he said with a slight smile.

‘Uncle John and Aunt Mary have Claire and Harry. And Auntie Anthea and Uncle Mycroft have Richard and the twins.’

Understanding rushed over him and he grinned broadly. ‘Yes, they do.’

With a determined gaze fondly reminiscent of her mother, Georgina looked over her crayon-written notes and then back to Sherlock. ‘According to them, having more than one kid is ‘wonderful’, ‘amazing’, and ‘magical.’ Although, that last one was Uncle John’s word and seems highly hyperbolic.’

Covering his mouth, Sherlock fought not to laugh. He schooled his features and nodded solemnly. ‘That is all true. And Uncle John does have the tendency for fantastical exaggeration.’

‘I wanted to talk to you before I asked Mummy,’ she continued with a measure of nervousness. She looked at him in solidarity. ‘We both know how emotional she can get.’

‘Indeed, but that is her strength.’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow, not wanting to condone any disrespect.

A faint blush of chastisement stole up Georgina’s pale cheeks, but she quickly moved on. ‘This brings me to my core argument.’ She laid her hands atop her papers and stared at him with determined intensity. ‘I believe you and Mummy should have another child.’

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded, pretending to think about it. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. I would be an ideal older sister,’ she explained and shuffled through her papers until she found the right one. A rainbow of colors covered it and she cleared her throat. ‘I would be helpful in watching the baby. For example, I have taken care of Toby for three years and he is still alive.’

‘Well,’ Sherlock interjected with raised eyebrows. ‘There was the pineapple incident of 2017.’

Georgina narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Very well, I will accept your point. Please,’ Sherlock gestured to her paper, ‘continue.’

Shaking her paper straight as she’d clearly seen Uncle Mycroft do, Georgina spoke on with purpose. ‘Because I am brilliant, I will also be able to impart my own knowledge to the baby, leaving you and Mummy more time to yourselves.’

Sherlock had to close his eyes and count to ten to keep from bursting out in laughter. Oh, she had most definitely consulted her paternal uncle for advice. With a steadying breath, he nodded. ‘I agree.’

‘And finally…’ She took a deep breath and spoke softly but with conviction, ‘You and Mummy love each other and me and that’s it. I’d feel selfish if I was the only one who got your love.’

Sherlock froze in surprise. A hiccupping sob broke the solemn moment and they both turned to see Molly in the doorway, her work bag dropped by her feet and her hand covering her mouth. ‘Oh, my darling girl,’ she cried out and rushed to pull Georgina into her a bone-crushing hug.

‘Mum. Mum!’ Squirming, Georgina struggled to get away from her crying mother. ‘This is why I wanted to ask you later. Papa, help me!’

Sherlock was still a bit stunned by her final admission, but quickly shook himself from his daze and rounded the table.

‘Molly, love, let her breathe,’ he laughed and pulled his wife away.

‘I’m sorry,’ Molly blubbered and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Georgina brushed the wrinkles from her jumper with a disgusted frown, but Sherlock could see the smile she was hiding. He lifted her up and set her on his hip, wrapping his free arm around Molly who buried her face in his chest.

He shook his head fondly at his two girls.

Once Molly composed herself, she rested her head against Sherlock’s shoulder and smiled up at Georgina. ‘Those were very good reasons, Georgina. Well thought out and logically sound. I’m very proud of you.’

Despite being ruffled by her mother’s surprise attack of emotion, Georgina preened under the praise. She looked between her parents in excitement. ‘Does that mean you’ll consider having a baby?’

Sherlock tilted his head in thought. ‘Well, that’s something Mummy and Daddy need to discuss.’ Molly nodded in agreement.

Pouting, Georgina sighed and played with the buttons on her father’s shirt. ‘Can you discuss it quickly and tell me before dinner?’

Molly bopped her fondly on the nose. ‘Patience, my love. Now, go wash up and you can help me set the table.’

‘Alright.’ With heavy steps, their dramatic daughter dragged herself to the bathroom, grumbling all the while. Molly watched her leave with fond exasperation. Her husband’s arms wrapped around her waist and he nuzzled his face into her neck.

‘Shall we tell her tonight?’

Molly shook her head and laid her hand over Sherlock’s on the slight bulge of her abdomen. ‘No, let’s wait a bit.’ She turned her face and smiled up at him. ‘Let her believe she had some influence over it. That was a brilliant speech, after all.’


	30. Meddling Mummy

Violet Holmes was a formidable force of nature. Especially when it came to her sons. With a subtle arch of her eyebrow, she could send them scuttling for cover. The British Government and the world’s only Consulting Detective were wrapped around her little finger. And she used it to her great advantage.

Yes, it was good to be Mummy Holmes.

But of all the power she wielded over her boys, she’d failed in one regard. Both were bordering middle-age and were perfectly obstinate against settling down, thus depriving her of the joy of grandchildren.

And after ten years of prodding them and manipulating them with no success, she decided to make one last desperate attempt to have her boys married off, happy, and on the way to giving her those gorgeous, brilliant babies.

So, with these purposes in mind on this rather unremarkable Thursday, Violet meandered down the halls of St. Bartholomew’s hospital. She’d come into town just that morning, having made sure neither of her sons were aware of her unexpected trip into London.

Finding the appropriate lab, Violet was just about to open the door when it was pulled open and a woman in a white lab coat nearly stumbled into her.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ The young woman blushed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, readjusting her grip on her clipboard. She smiled brightly, if not a tad nervously. ‘Can I help you?’

Violet took in the appearance of her mark. Molly Hooper was a petite thing, her face somewhat plain, but shining with kindness and hospitality, and her brown eyes sparkled with intelligence. Oh, how Sherlock had been so blind to the jewel of this sweet pathologist for so long, she’d never know. ‘You must be Molly.’

Molly’s brow furrowed a bit in confusion, but her smile didn’t dim. ‘Sorry? Do I know you?’

‘Violet Holmes.’ She held out her hand in greeting.

‘Oh, you’re Sherlock’s mother!’ Molly’s eyes widened in surprise as she absentmindedly shook Violet’s hand and a faint blush stole up her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think Sherlock’s coming in today. Not unless there’s a murder or he gets bored. Which is often, though you probably know that, being his mother…’ She trailed off in a nervous stammer and hugged her clipboard close to her chest.

‘No, my dear,’ Violet chuckled. ‘I’ve not come to see Sherlock. Heaven forbid he knows I’m here, he’d throw a royal fit. No, no. I’ve come to see you.’

‘Me?’ Molly pointed at herself in confusion.

Violet wrapped an arm around the bemused woman and guided her back into the lab. ‘Yes, my dear. We have much to discuss.’

* * *

Sherlock barreled down the hallway, his coat tails flapping behind him. John had banned him from Baker Street for the afternoon, despite the fact that the doctor no longer bloody lived there. So Sherlock wasn’t allowed to return until Mrs Hudson was satisfied with the cleanliness of the kitchen, all body parts and chemicals properly disposed of. And Sherlock was notorious about sneaking his experiments out and was not allowed to be a part of the removal team.

So, with nothing else to do, he decided to visit his favorite pathologist and see if he could wrangle a few new body parts to replace the ones John was currently binning.

He straight-armed his way into the lab and immediately stopped cold.

His world shifted and his eyes widened in horror as he took in the sight of Molly Hooper sitting with his  _mother_ , sipping canteen coffees and laughing over a photo album.

‘Ah, Sherlock, there you are,’ Mummy said when she noticed him standing in the doorway. ‘Come, we’re just finishing up the primary school section. Molly here was particularly tickled by your pirate phase.’

He nearly choked on his breath. Molly was red-faced and giggling uncontrollably.

‘Mother,’ he snarled through clenched teeth. ‘What brings you to London?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ she said with a dismissive wave. Patting Molly’s knee, she smiled at the young doctor. ‘But after hearing all your stories about your darling pathologist  _friend_ , I just had to meet her!’

Molly wiggled her fingers in greeting and smiled understandingly. ‘Hi, Sherlock.’

Regaining his normal cool composure, Sherlock placed his hands behind his back and nodded a return greeting. ‘Molly. If you’ll excuse us, I’d like a word with my mother.’ He shot the older woman a pointed glare. ‘Alone.’

Haughtily, Violet slid off her stool and followed Sherlock into the hall. ‘I’ll just be a moment, Molly dear,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Feel free to look through the album, I think you’ll particularly enjoy his punk phase.’

‘Mummy!’ Sherlock hissed just as the doors closed behind them. Rubbing his hand over his forehead, he groaned. ‘Whatare you doing here? And don’t tell me you fancied a trip to the morgue.’

Straightening her top, Violet turned a knowing smile to him. ‘Oh, don’t be so thick. I simply decided to visit the woman my son has fallen in love with.’

‘L-love?!’

Continuing as if he hadn’t interrupted her in sputtered confusion, she sighed. ‘Goodness knows, if I waited for you to introduce me, I’d have been on my deathbed before I met her.’

‘Mummy!’

Patting his cheek, she smiled up at him. ‘Both you and your brother are so very insistent on believing yourselves to be heartless. But you forget,’ she quirked an eyebrow knowingly, ‘that I know how deeply you both can feel. And I was tired of watching the two of you bemoan your solitude in various ways. You with your detective work and Mycroft with the government-

‘-and cakes.’

‘Hush,’ she admonished with a slap to his shoulder. ‘I want grandchildren. And your stubbornness will  _not_ stand in my way.’

‘Mummy,’ he whined softly, glancing nervously at the lab door.

‘Oh, do stop fretting, William. I know you love the woman, but she won’t wait forever for you to wise up. Now, either you let her find happiness with someone else-‘

Against his will, he made a sort of choked, horrified noise.

‘-or you march yourself back in there and put a ring on her finger.’ With her hands on her hips, Violet stared her son down, telling him without words that if he chose the first option she’d make his life a living Hell.

Snapping out of his stunned daze, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Well-played, Mummy.’

She tried not to laugh triumphantly as he straightened his scarf and ruffled his curls endearingly, before walking back toward the lab. ‘Oh, Sherlock?’ she called.

He turned around and barely managed to catch the small box she tossed to him. He flipped it open and a wide grin spread across his face. ‘Gran’s ring.’ He snapped it closed. ‘I assume this means Anthea will be receiving Nana’s?’

‘If all goes to plan,’ Violet said with a confident air, waving him toward the lab. ‘Now, don’t waste time, Sherlock. You’ll want to head her off before she gets to the photos of your Goth phase.’

His eyes widened in horror and he nearly sprinted into the lab.

Muffled voices sounded through the door. Suddenly, there was a surprised shriek, a clattering of breaking glass, followed by a chorus of joyful ‘yesses.’

Content in the knowledge that a grandbaby would soon be in the works, Violet made her way down the hall, a spring in her step. When the CCTV camera in the corner caught her eye, she smiled wickedly at it.

‘One down,’ she whispered. ‘One to go.’


	31. What Passes for Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Hullo! How about some serving of Sherlock and Molly's children interacting with Granddaddy and Grandmummy Holmes? Thank you!

‘Mummy and Daddy are fighting.’

Violet turned at the small voice to see the youngest Holmes standing forlornly in the doorway, tears in his blue-green eyes. Violet brushed the flour from her hands and opened her arms. Immediately, Gregory threw himself into her embrace and buried his curly head in her apron.

‘Sometimes Mummies and Daddies have arguments.’ She cupped his ruddy cheek and lifted his face. With a warm smile, she reassured him. ‘They just need to talk some things over.’

Gregory sniffled, more tears falling down his face. ‘But Mummy was yelling at Daddy and saying she was going to go back home without him! Doesn’t she love him no more?’

Resisting the urge to sigh, Violet sat down in the kitchen chair and pulled him onto her lap. She used the corner of her apron to wipe the tear tracks from his cheeks and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. ‘Your Mummy loves your Daddy very much. And she won’t leave him.’

He looked at her dubiously.

‘When someone is very stressed or tired, they can say things they don’t mean. Haven’t you ever been angry with Georgina and said something you didn’t mean?’

‘Yeah,’ he sniffled.

Squeezing him briefly, she smiled. ‘It’s not something we should do, but sometimes those words just slip out. It doesn’t mean we’ve stopped loving the other person.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Just then, the back door opened and Siger walked in. ‘Well now, what’s all this?’

‘Gregory and I were just having a chat.’ Patting his cheek, Violet set him down and pushed him in Siger’s direction. ‘Now if I remember correctly, Granddad came across a bird’s nest the other day.’

Gregory’s eyes widened in excitement, all signs of his earlier distress gone. Over their grandson’s head, Siger winked conspiratorially at Violet, then held out a hand to Gregory, who immediately rushed over and let his grandfather guide him outside. ‘There’s a couple eggs in there, too. Now, you know how your old granddad can’t tell a chicken’s egg from a dinosaur egg, so you’ll have to help me deduce which type of bird is in there…’

Shaking her head fondly as the door shut behind them, Violet took off her apron and wandered into the living room to see what was causing Gregory so much worry.

Molly was curled up in the far corner of the sofa, her arms crossed over her chest and a determined frown on her face. Sitting in the chair next to her, Sherlock was staring at her, clearly trying to deduce something.

‘I take it the argument has not been resolved?’

Sherlock flicked his glaze up to her briefly. ‘Molly is being pig-headed.’

‘ _I’m_ being pig-headed?!’ Molly exclaimed.

‘Yes,  _you_  are.’

‘I’m not the one who won’t compromise.’

‘Well, I’m not the one who’s being unnecessarily stubborn.’

Molly stared at him incredulously.

Violet placed her hand on her hips. ‘You’re both unnecessarily stubborn. Now, what is this all about?’

‘Mummy’s pregnant again and Daddy doesn’t want her to go back to work.’

Violet looked down in surprise at the droll interruption to see Georgina curled up in the other armchair, her nose buried in a book.

The eight-year-old flipped the page, a look of boredom on her face. ‘They’ve been arguing about it for a week.’

Violet beamed widely at the couple. ‘Oh, my dears, that’s marvelous news!’

‘Yes, yes,’ Sherlock waved dismissively at her exclamation. ‘But Molly here is insisting on continuing to work, in the lab, and the  _morgue_ , in her current condition! With Georgina and Gregory, she took leave for the entire pregnancy. But not this time! Nope! Of all the idiotic, stupid-’

‘Sherlock!’

Molly glared at him and he shut his mouth, but his brow remained drawn in a furious frown.

‘Georgina, dear, why don’t you help me in the kitchen?’ Violet stood and ushered the girl from the room, letting the couple bicker without an audience.

Georgina grumbled and snapped her book closed, before shuffling along obediently. ‘I don’t see why I can’t stay. I know how it will turn out. Mummy’s just as stubborn as Daddy and he’ll eventually shut up about it. Then when Mummy realizes she’s too tired and stressed to work, a month or so from now, Daddy will say ‘I told you so’ and she’ll make him sleep on the couch for a week and toss his experiments. Then everything will be back to normal.’ 

She held up the apron Violet handed to her and looked at the kittens on it with disgust. ‘Or whatever passes for normal in this family.’

Knowing how her son and daughter-in-law were, Violet knew Georgina was most likely correct. But she hid her smile as she tied her own apron. 

‘Normal is so very boring, my dear. And one thing us Holmes’ will  _never_ be is ‘normal’.’


	32. Of Doubts and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tumblr prompt from the lovely softsusurrations: Hi again! Would you be able to write something where Sherlock and Molly are married, but sometimes Molly often wonders why Sherlock married her, and worries that it wasn't because he loves her - but of course he does, he's just Sherlock, that's just how he acts! Thank you (: x

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Molly.’ Sherlock sighed in exasperation. ‘What possible reason would I have to cheat on you?’

Molly glared at him. It hadn’t been her intention to bring up her doubts about their marriage tonight, but the stress of her worries and fears had finally bubbled over and came pouring out. Sherlock had come home from a week long case with a pair of lacy knickers in his coat pocket and Molly had erupted.

‘If anyone can come up with a reason for adultery, it’s the world’s only Consulting Detective,’ she spat. ‘So, tell me, if a client came to you and accused her husband of cheating on her, wouldn’t another woman’s panties in his pocket, lipstick on his collar, and no text update for a week be indisputable proof?’

Running his hands over his face in aggravation, Sherlock groaned. ‘If you would listen to me, I had to go under cover as a philanderer. It’s all circumstantial!’

‘Bullshit!’ Molly shouted, shocking both her and Sherlock. ‘Five years, Sherlock. We’ve been married for five years and haven’t so much as kissed. And I know you’re not heartless or emotionless. How can a man go for so long not even touching his wife unless he’s getting it somewhere else?’

Immediately, Sherlock’s anger dissipated and he tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘This isn’t just about the past week, is it?’

‘It’s about all of it.’ She crossed her arms and willed the tears away. She was angry with him and terrified that her marriage, what there was of it, was crumbling beneath her. ‘It’s about the cases, the women, the knickers… our marriage.’

‘What about our marriage?’ To her traitorous ears, his voice sounded tinged in fear, but she knew better.

Shrugging, Molly turned away and busied herself with straightening the slides on the kitchen table.

‘Molly.’ Sherlock stepped closer, towering over her.

With a sigh, Molly felt her anger vanish and hollow sadness swallow her in its wake. ‘It’s a bit laughable, really. The brilliant detective who doesn’t love marrying the pathetic, naïve pathologist? No one bought it, except for me. I suppose I’m just a bit slow on the uptake.’

‘What in God’s name are you talking about?’

‘We both know it’s a sham, Sherlock,’ she sighed, leaning her hands on the table and dropping her head down. ‘I don’t know why you married me, maybe for an experiment or to get your mother off your back or out of some misguided pity…’ Taking a shaky breath, she closed her eyes. ‘So, let’s just stop this. Stop it now, while I still have the chance to move on. I get it, I won’t be enough, but don’t keep me dangling on the farfetched hope that you’ll _ever_ love me.’

Suddenly, his hands grabbed her shoulders and whirled her around. She stared at him in surprise, taking in the stricken features and furious eyes, before turning her face away and crossing her arms.

‘Molly,’ he rasped, ‘you don’t believe that.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she replied and wrenched out of his grasp. ‘Why else would you marry me?’

‘Because I _love you_ , foolish woman!’ He shouted. ‘My _god,_ you’ve been doubting me this whole time?’

Molly froze and whispered ‘What?’

Dropping his head back, Sherlock laughed mirthlessly.  ‘I love you. That’s why I married you.’

‘Don’t,’ she whispered harshly. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘I would never lie to you. To keep you safe, yes. But never with dubious intent. Never about this.’

He cupped her cheeks. His eyes had always been heart-stopping, a swirling mix of blues and greens with hints of gold reflected in the light. But what stopped Molly’s heart this time was the complete and utter vulnerability in his gaze.

The barriers he’d erected against emotion were torn away and she finally saw what she’d never let herself believe. That her husband loved her. And that right now he was terrified of losing her.

She hesitantly raised her hand and touched his cheek. ‘Then why…?’

‘Why haven’t I said anything?’ He finished for her with a sad smile. ‘At first, I knew you wouldn’t believe me. And then as the years passed, it became easier to convince myself that you would understand without my having to say the words. I thought turning down a 9 to take care of you when you were ill would tell you I cared more about you than my work. I thought complimenting your body would tell you that I was… interested. ’ He sighed deeply. ‘I was obviously wrong. All I managed to do was convince you I was pretending.’

He dropped his hands and turned away from her, defeat in the line of his shoulders.

Incredulous and unbelieving, Molly stared at his back, her mind replaying the past five years. His seemingly cold proposal that spoke of naught but logic… she remembered his brief smile, the one that fueled her hope for their marriage before she dismissed it as wishful thinking. She remembered being struck with influenza and the dream she thought she’d imagined of Sherlock brushing a damp cloth across her feverish brow. She remembered all the times she thought she’d caught him gazing at her with admiration and passion and waved it off as impossible.

Her heart seemed fit to burst as she finally saw how her husband had sought to show her his love, hindered by his own fear and uncertainty of emotions. 

Molly stepped closer and placed her hand on his arm, turning him back. His eyes were lined in defeat and his mouth turned down. Cupping his cheek, she brushed her thumb over his cheekbone.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t understand.’

He closed his eyes at her touch and shook his head slightly. ‘I should have said something.’

‘So say something now.’ She stared up at him, feeling herself teeter on the edge of hope and fear.

He cupped her cheeks and brushed his nose against hers, making her heart flutter. His voice was husky and thick as he smiled down at her.

‘I love you, Mrs Holmes.’

Heart bursting with happiness, Molly pulled herself up against him and wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders, pressing her lips to his with unrivaled enthusiasm. His hands slid from her face to her hips, locking her against his body, his usual iciness laid aside as he lit the fire of hope back into her heart.

When the need to breathe became too much, Molly broke away, giggling at his red-kissed lips and ruffled hair. ‘I love you, too, Mr Holmes.’


	33. Of Scrabble Tiles and Expectant Fathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Can't get enough of your Sherlolly fics! They really are the sweetest. Here's a prompt: Molly is pregnant but Sherlock, the ever-observant consulting detective husband, fails to notice the signs, big time. Hilarity ensues.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective was an expectant father. And he had no clue.

For two weeks he had been ignorant of it, despite all of his wife's subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to tell him.

The buffet of 'baby' food (baby carrots, baby potatoes, lamb chops, and baby spinach) had gone right over his over-sized head.

The hints at increasing her visits to the OBGYN had gone unnoticed.

The little booties she'd placed on his microscope had been discarded as misplaced from the Watson's baby.

The suggestions at maybe needing more space in their room had been taken as a desire for a bigger bed (not that Molly was complaining about that, the new king-size bed was a dream).

The mention of her possibly getting bigger had been met with a terrified stare and a fumbling mess of reassurances that he loved  _her_  and not just her body and that beauty was a social ideology that he did not conform to.

The breakfast of hot cinnamon buns fresh from the oven had been met with delight, but he still remained oblivious.

Aside from sitting him down and smacking him with a pregnancy test, which Molly didn't want to be reduced to, there was one last thing she was going to do.

Sherlock had been out with John on a 5 for the past few days, leaving Molly time to perfect her plan.

At 4:00, he texted her that he was on his way home.

At 4:15, he walked through the door of 221b and was greeted by the sight of his wife sitting cross-legged in his chair, their Scrabble board set out on the coffee table before her.

'Three years of marriage is all it takes for the passion to dissipate?' He remarked as he shucked off his Belstaff and sank into the chair opposite her. 'I remember when you would pounce on me the moment I walked in the door after being away for an afternoon, let alone three days.'

Molly narrowed her eyes playfully. 'Pouncing later. Play now.' She raised her eyebrows and held the tin of letters out to him, her carefully selected tiles already on her rack.

He grabbed a handful of the wood pieces without taking his piercing gaze from her, clearly trying to deduce her purpose.

Once both had selected their letters, a solemn silence descended between them. They both took their Scrabble games quite seriously and had an ongoing competition of who could play the most complex, high-point word. Molly was winning with 'muzjiks' in 2016, a game that ended with a disgruntled Sherlock sleeping on the sofa for a week before Mycroft stepped in and officially declared it a proper play.

Sherlock still believed it to be a biased ruling, since Mycroft adored Molly and the sweet treats she baked for him on a regular basis.

But this game was going to be life-changing.

Immediately, Sherlock played his hand.  **Daunt**

'Starting simple?' Molly teased.

He steepled his hands under his chin and narrowed his eyes at her. 'Just take your turn.'

'Okay, Mister Grumpy-pants.' She bit her lip and carefully selected her letters, descending from his.  **You**

'And you were mocking me for playing simple words.'

'Just take your turn,' she giggled.

Back and forth they went, Molly trying her best to play as many baby-related words as possible. When she played the simple words, Sherlock would glance up at her, a curious frown on his face, before shaking his head and focusing back on the board.

By the time the tiles ran out, Sherlock had earned nearly 700 points, while Molly trailed with less than 200.

With one tile left, Sherlock was on the edge of finishing first and, without a doubt, winning.

Molly bit her lip as she perused the board, seeing all the words she'd laid as hints.  **You, Me, Dad, Cot, Mum, Baby, Nana…** Not many, but the theme was apparent. Unfortunately, so far, the Consulting Detective was blind to the obvious.

Sherlock smiled in triumph and was about to lay down his final tile, when he suddenly froze, his hand hovering over the board.

He ran his gaze over the words on the table.

' _You… Mum. Me… Dad._ ' he muttered, his eyes widening as realization began to dawn.

Molly smiled when he lifted his startled gazed to hers. 'I wanted to play 'Consulting Detective Junior'… I didn't have enough letters for that, though.' He blinked at her repeatedly. 'Probably wouldn't have been a proper play, either.'

'The baby food… the cinnamon buns… the booties… the weight gain…'

Smirking, Molly raised her eyebrows. 'You know, for a Consulting Detective, you're surprisingly blind to the obvious.'

Suddenly, he lunged across the coffee table and pulled her to her feet. He gripped her shoulders tightly, running his gaze over her, taking in the slight changes beginning to take shape on her body.

'Oi!' Molly cried out as he abruptly turned her around. 'Sherlock, what…'

He whirled her about once more. 'You're pregnant?!'

'And here I thought you were above stating the obvious!' Molly teased, crossing her arms.

'You're pregnant,' he exclaimed again, the shock on his face giving way to wonder. ' _We're_ pregnant!'

'Yes,' she chuckled at his eagerness.

Shouting happily, he picked her up by the waist and twirled her around, the tips of her toes brushing over the Scrabble board.

When he finally set her down, red-faced and laughing joyously, he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. 'Thank you. I was terribly afraid Mycroft would be the first to give Mummy a grandchild. Finally,' he dropped his head back, 'I have a leg-up on that pompous-'

Molly narrowed her eyes and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. 'Is that the only reason you're happy about this?'

'Of course not.'

'Good.'

'Obviously, it will make for a marvelous experiment to raise a  _junior Consulting Detective_  to bring along on cases.' Molly gaped at him incredulously. He quirked an eyebrow. 'Your words, darling.'

'Treading on thin ice, husband,' she growled without heat.

Nuzzling his face in the crook of her shoulder, he pressed butterfly kisses along her neck. 'Mmm, perhaps those aren't the only reasons. I find the thought of evidence of our union growing inside you… quite pleasing.'

'Better,' Molly sighed happily. 'We'll work on it. And your deductive skills, too, Mr Detective Man.' He growled into her neck and she giggled. 'Honestly, two weeks? You're slipping in your old age.'

He pulled back with a pout on his face. 'Rude.'


	34. Toby and His Consulting Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: How about some Sherlock and Toby interactions? Molly is baffled that aloof Toby is openly affectionate towards Sherlock until she catches Sherlock several times secretly giving Toby treats, belly rubs and what have you.

Silently, Molly tiptoed up the stairs of Baker Street, her shoes dangling from her fingers. The door to 221b was closed, but she could hear faint murmurings coming from inside as she crept forward. As quietly as she could, she gripped the doorknob and slowly turned it, pulling it open a smidgen. Through the crack, she peeked inside and nearly cried aloud in triumph.

There, in Sherlock’s leather chair, sat her faithful, somewhat crotchety tabby cat, his tail twitching happily as he licked his chomps.

On the floor in front of the chair, with his back to the door, sat one Consulting Detective, cross-legged. He dug his hand into a bag in his lap and pulled out a meaty treat, dangling it in front of the cat.

‘What is the square root of 32 to the 3rd power divided by 90 to the nearest integer?’

Toby tilted his head and meowed twice.

‘Brilliant!’ Sherlock exclaimed triumphantly and tossed the treat in the air.

Toby caught it and gobbled it down with the closest expression to a smirk a cat could have as Sherlock scratched him behind the ears. The normally sourpuss of a cat leaned into his touch and purred like a motor. As Sherlock’s hand traveled under his chin, Toby flopped to his side and stretched his legs, silently deigning to allow Sherlock to rub his tummy.

‘It’s surprising how little humanity cares for the idea that animals are intelligent, perceptive. Not to the extent of most humans, no offense.’ He shifted and leaned against the front of the chair, drawing his hand lazily along Toby’s rumbling stomach. ‘But intelligent in their own right, nonetheless. Something Mr Hardgrave neglected to understand and led to his gruesome demise. An idiot, Toby. Possibly the greatest one there is. Well, was.’ Sherlock sniggered. ‘He tried to rob the home of an elderly woman and her cats. Let me tell you, those cats were mightily protective of the old bat and her jewelry…’

Molly pressed her hand to mouth, stifling her laughter as she watched her two curmudgeons and their odd affection. Although she wanted to burst into the room and catch Sherlock in the act of humanizing the furball… there was something inherently sweet about the unlikely friendship he had with Toby.

Softly, she closed the door and slipped back down the stairs.

Slamming the front door, she climbed up to their flat once more, calling a greeting as she did.

She’d let him have his secret.

After all, he had found a kindred spirit in her obstinate tabby cat. And she wasn’t going to come between him and his feline soulmate.


	35. Of Obstinate Oboists and Vain Violinists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Sherlock and Molly being in the school orchestra together, Molly being 1st flute and Sherlock 1st violin so they are always opposite each other. In the middle of the piece they have a special duet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I tweaked it slightly and combined it with another anonymous prompt that was along similar lines. Molly is actually an oboist (it's unique and quirky, like her… and, as an oboist, I'm biased). And they're professionals in the Symphony.

‘You’re flat.’

‘Am not.’

‘Are so!’

‘No, _you’re_ sharp!’

‘Am not!’

‘Are so!’

Sherlock haughtily plucked the strings on his violin as he stared down at his duet partner. He’d never admit it aloud, but Molly was as adorable as a spitting kitten when she was angry. Nevertheless, she was wrong.

‘My strings are perfectly tuned and my fingerings are impeccable. _You_ have to rely on _wood_ and _your_ _embouchure,_ which is frankly atrocious given your thin lips.’

He immediately regretted his careless tongue when tears of hurt and anger filled the girl’s eyes. ‘Y-you… you… Oh, you think you’re so perfect!’ She stomped her foot and tightened her grip on her oboe.

‘Not perfect, merely better.’

‘There is no way to determine who is better, we play completely different instruments!’ she argued.

‘Molly,’ he sighed. ‘We have less than a week until the concert. It will be to our benefit if you will simply admit your mistake and correct it, instead of arguing with me.’

Narrowing her eyes at him, she huffed angrily and turned back to her stand, her ponytail whipping across his arm as she did so. ‘Prat,’ she muttered as she readjusted her reed, shooting him a sideways glare as she did so. He bit back a smile at the angry blush on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye as she bantered with him.

‘If you’d taken my advice and abandoned that…atrocity for a proper instrument, like the violin or even the cello, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

‘I happen to like the oboe,’ she spat. ‘Just because you’re some hoity-toity, violin virtuoso, doesn’t negate the uniqueness of the oboe nor my talent.’

‘No, but it’s still annoying.’

Whipping her head angrily, she pointed at his violin. ‘Not as annoying as the screeches you pull out of _that_ poor thing!’

‘I don’t pull _screeches_.’ He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

‘Yes, you do.’ She lifted her chin haughtily and turned back to her stand.

‘I do not!’

She merely quirked an eyebrow at his petulance.

Despite knowing that she was quickly turning the conversation against him, he grew more disgruntled.

‘Molly Hooper, I do not _screech_. You take that back!’

‘Mmm, no _pe_.’ She popped the ‘p’ as he often did, further raising his hackles.

‘Molly!’

Her lips thinned as she tried not to smile and pretended to be busy readjusting her reed and softening the wood with her thumb. Now thoroughly displeased, Sherlock ripped the oboe from her grasp and held it away.

‘Oi!’ She cried out and turned to him, hands on her hips. ‘Give it back.’

‘No, not until you take the screeching remark back.’

‘I refuse.’ She crossed her arms over her chest.

He narrowed his eyes at her and stepped closer until he towered over her and her eyes were wide as she looked up at him.

‘Take. It. Back.’ He growled.

‘No.’

‘Molly,’ he warned. She swallowed at the deep timbre of his voice, her pulse beating rapidly in her throat.

Suddenly, with a determined gleam in her eye, sweet, shy Molly Hooper reached up and cupped his cheeks, pulling his face down until her lips met his.  He grunted in surprise, his eyes widening in shock as his arms flailed, barely remembering to hold onto their instruments. As her warm, thin (how did he ever say a bad word about them) lips molded against his, he relaxed and slowly closed his eyes.

Just as suddenly as she started it, Molly pulled away, triumph in her eyes.

Dazed and flushed, Sherlock stared dumbly at her as she stepped back. It took several seconds for him to register the oboe in her grasp. He glanced down at his empty hand, trying to remember when she took it back. Apparently, sometime during the kiss.

He felt his heart clench in hurt as he realized she’d kissed him as a diversion.

‘I win,’ she declared, slightly breathless.

He narrowed his eyes at her, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the dilated pupils, and the redness of her faintly fuller lips as she breathed rapidly, her heartbeat racing fast and strong in her throat. She was as affected as he.

Without taking his eyes from hers, he set his violin down and sauntered over to where she stood with a victorious smile on her face, which faded as he drew closer. Swallowing loudly, she held her oboe across her chest defensively.

‘Sh-Sherlock?’

He grinned wolfishly and took the oboe from her loose grip, setting it on the chair beside her. She wrung her hands and flicked her gaze about nervously.

‘I-I didn’t… I’m sorry, I wasn’t…’ She stammered, her usual timidity coming on full force as he focused his smolder on her, wrapping his arm around her waist.

She gasped as he tugged her close, causing her to stumble and steady herself against his chest. With a final smirk of triumph, he cupped the back of her neck and kissed her firmly. She squeaked in surprise, then abruptly relaxed as he coaxed her lips open against his, eliciting a moan deep in her chest that rumbled against him. Her hands slid up into his hair and she tugged on his curls, threading the strands through her nimble musician fingers.

Pulling away to breathe, Sherlock placed small, affectionate kisses along her jawline. ‘Take it back,’ he murmured.

She shivered at the brush of his lips by her ear. ‘No. And kissing me won’t change my mind.’

‘Why?’ He brushed his nose against hers. ‘I think this is the perfect way to get you to see my side and end an argument. Isn’t that what couples do?’

Her eyebrows flew to her hairline. ‘Is that what we are?’

‘I certainly hope you don’t go around kissing just anyone who steals your oboe.’

A slow smile grew on her face, her eyes twinkling in happiness, as she raised herself up on her tiptoes. ‘Nope, just you,’ she smiled and rewarded him with a deep kiss, his knees threatening to give out when she grew bolder and took control, her hands scratching his scalp and her tongue winning whatever battle they were fighting.

When she finally broke away for air, Sherlock tried to follow, his mind wiped blank and all he wanted was her lips on his again.

‘Do I _have_ to take it back?’ She pouted up at him prettily, biting her lip. He stared at the plump, red feature and wondered how he had ever said a negative word about it.

‘Take what back?’ He asked distractedly.

Giggling, Molly ran her hands across his chest and under his arms, pulling herself closer and snuggling against him. ‘One week until the concert. Think we can get along until then?’

He sighed dramatically. ‘I shall endeavor to be less of a pompous prat.’

‘Your efforts would be appreciated,’ she quipped.

‘But there is one thing we need to clarify,’ he said.

‘Oh? And what’s that?’

‘Violins _are_ better than oboes.’

‘Sherlock!’


	36. Of Sharing and Tickle Fights

He glared at her. ‘Give it to me.’

‘No.’ Molly pouted playfully and held her fist close to her chest, turning her body away. ‘I called dibs, it’s rightfully mine!’

‘There is no such rule as ‘dibs,’ so give it back, it’s mine!’

Sherlock leaned over the coffee table and grabbed her wrist, prying open her fingers.

‘Sherlock, let go!’ She squealed and ripped her hand away, jumping up to get out of his reach. ‘I claimed it, it’s mine! Choose something else.’

‘I don’t want something else, I want  _that_ one. I’ve always had that one, it’s mine!’

Placing her fists on her hips, Molly frowned at him in scolding. ‘Well, someone never learned to share.’

With a growl, he lunged over the table, sending papers and cards across the floor, and made a futile grasp for her as Molly twisted out of his way, practically prancing around the lounge. Sherlock picked himself up from his, rather undignified sprawl, and growled as he stalked toward her, backing her knees into the sofa.

‘I don’t have to share, it’s  _mine_!’ He made another attempt to retrieve his property, but Molly held fast, her knuckles turning white as she shoved her hand into the pocket of her trousers. He quirked an eyebrow and drawled seductively, ‘That will hardly stop me.’

‘Try me,’ she challenged, lifting her chin.

With a wicked smile, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her onto the sofa, using her moment of surprise to roll her underneath until his legs were on either side and his arms bracketed her head.

Her cheeks flushed bright red and her breathing came rapidly, as her gaze flitted up to him.

‘One last chance, Doctor Hooper,’ he warned. ‘Give. It. Back.’

Although flustered by the caress of his breath across her face, Molly shook her head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her obstinance and slowly lowered his face.

‘Molly,’ he growled. Her body shivered at the rich tone, but she held fast. As his nose nearly brushed hers, she closed her eyes and lifted her chin, in silent invitation. Their lips were nearly touching, he was close enough to make out the individual eyelashes that curved onto the apple of her cheek.

He shifted so that he leaned on one arm, his other hand caressing the side of her face and following the curve of her neck, onto her clavicle and down her side. Then, with an evil grin, he attacked.

Molly’s eyes flew open as his hand suddenly found the bare skin of her stomach where her jumper had ridden up and he danced his fingers lightly across the sensitive flesh. Shrieking in involuntary laughter, she tried in vain to push him off, her fist still closed tightly as she shoved against his chest.

‘Sh-Sherlock, s-stop, oh my god, stop-p!’ She laughed, turning to the side to try and escape his tickling fingers. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she laughed, Sherlock’s chuckles joining in as he continued to tickle her without mercy.

‘This is your punishment, Doctor Hooper,’ he admonished, somehow managing to tickle her side at the same time as he pulled off her fuzzy sock and found the ticklish spot on the arch of her foot.

Molly shrieked in laughter and jerked away from his hand, suddenly finding herself in the air before landing on her back on the floor with a spectacular  _thump_.

She stared at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath.

Muffled laughter from the couch brought her attention to the raven-haired man with half his face buried in the cushion, his eyes staring down at her in a mixture of mirth and apology. He slowly lifted his hand over the side and dangled his small, metal trophy between his fingertips over her red face.

‘Mine,’ he declared smugly.

Molly huffed in defeat. ‘Fine.  _This_ timeyou can be the boat.’


	37. Of Angels and Ninjas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from a lovely anon: I can't get this out of my head and you write so well so here's a prompt if you're up for it! Mary, Molly, and Anthea work for Mycroft (Charlie's Angels style)... Sherlock and John get bored when their ladies are out on a "girls night" so they go out looking for trouble but find out what their women are really up to when they accidentally stumble into one of their cases? Thanks! (This is my first prompt request ever btw)

'I should have stayed at the pub!'

'Oh, do stop complaining, you were utterly bored there! Surely you can't blame me for breaking up the monotony!'

'I thought you were taking the piss!' John shouted angrily as he tried to keep pace with Sherlock, knives whipping past them in worrying proximity, burying themselves to the hilt in the walls around them. He ducked his head and scrambled around the corner, nearly falling down as he raced to catch up with Sherlock's billowing coat.

Sherlock glanced back with a disdainful quirk of his eyebrow, as though to say 'Really?'

Behind them, the pattering footsteps were closing in.

_Ninjas._ John grumbled to himself in disbelief.  _Next time, I'll handcuff myself to the damn barstool and let Sherlock go chase them on his own. I'd even suffer at the spa with Mary instead!_

Just as they reached the warehouse exit, just when safety may have been in reach, Sherlock yanked the door open and stumbled to a stop, John running right into his back, as they came face-to-face with the barrel of a gun. His stomach dropped heavily.

Clad in a black catsuit, her auburn hair piled under a thick black hat, their mark smirked and cocked the hammer back.

'Oh, Mister Holmes,' Violet Hunter tsked. 'You should stayed at the pub.'

* * *

Snapping the cable into place, Molly tugged the line to test the resistance. Satisfied, she looked up and shot Mary a thumbs up, the blonde nodding in acknowledgement and anchoring the cable to the rooftop.

'There are four in the main room, three on the outer wall, and the leader is… damn it, where did she go?' Anthea cursed through the earpiece.

Molly peeked through the hatch in the roof of the warehouse and adjusted her sunglasses, a fashionable gift from Mycroft that easily transitioned to nightvision goggles. Whispering into her mic, Molly counted, 'I make out five marks in the main room. I can't determine if she's one of them, but…'

'…the odds are likely she's there,' Mary finished for her.

'We won't get another chance like this, I say we take those odds.'

'Agreed.' Molly could hear Anthea typing over the comm, the clack of the brunette's Blackberry keys loud and familiar, most likely giving Mycroft an update.

Molly turned and steadied her feet against the open window ledge, flicking her nightvision off.

'On my count,' Mary began, gripping the cable line and prepping for Molly's descent. 'Five… four… three… two…  _one_.'

With a firm shove, Molly dropped into the opening and slowly began to lower towards the ground. The five figures below her were still.

In the center of the room, right below her, sat a massive table filled with computer monitors and wires and lit by a bevy of lamps.

Keeping her breaths short and quiet, Molly drew closer. The window of opportunity was short. Just as she was about to breach the area of light, she reached up and tugged once on the rope, indicating that Mary should hold her steady. Slowly, so as not to catch the marks' attention, she shifted until she was vertical, her legs above her and wrapped around the cable. Reaching into her tight catsuit, she pulled out the flash drive containing Flatline.

She glanced up and waited for the right moment to slip it into the USB port, effectively obliterating the entire network.

Just as she was about to complete the first phase, her hand millimeters from the port, the overhead lights burst on. A deafening silence filled the space as Molly slowly lifted her head, staring into a roomful of surprised faces.

'Hello,' she called out cheerily and waggled her fingers in a wave. 'Just be a mo'.'

'Oh, god,' Mary groaned over the comm.

The room was suddenly filled with shouts and metal scraping against the cement floor as Molly slammed the Flatline drive into the port with one hand and unlinked herself from the cable with the other, flipping over gracefully and landing in her heeled boots (a definite first, she  _has_  to tell Mycroft). She swept her leg around and knocked an attacker down, his cry of pain lost as another attacker took his place with a cry of attack.

Molly easily deflected the slash of his knife, whipping around and attacking his weak points until he was an unconscious heap on the floor. More attackers rushed in from the hallway. A flash of blonde hair crossed Molly's peripheral as Mary joined her in the melee, Mary's superior hand-to-hand combat skills easily matching Molly's and surpassing the so-called 'ninjas' employed by the mark.

One by one, they knocked down their attackers, leaving a pile of groaning, bleeding men in their wake.

Slightly out of breath, they smiled at each other over the pile. 'Nice job,' Molly remarked, pulling her hat off and tugging the glasses from her face.

'You, too. And nice landing, by the way. I thought for a moment we'd have another Barcelona incident on our hands,' Mary teased.

'Oh, let her have her victory,' Anthea drolled over the comm. 'It's not  _every_  mission she doesn't break an ankle.'

'Oi,' Molly huffed in indignation before dissolving into laughter with her partners.

'Please, don't let me interrupt,' a voice suddenly interrupted their celebration. Molly and Mary whipped their heads around at the voice, accompanied by the click of a gun, to see their mark standing in the doorway. Heels clacking against the cement, Violet Hunter sauntered into the room, her gun never wavering from Molly's head.

'You know,' she smirked, 'I think I'm a bit honored to be visited by the Angels. You certainly know how to make a girl feel special.'

Molly and Mary watched her warily as she circled around them to the computer, using her free hand to type. The black screen flickered on and a log in screen appeared.

Violet turned her head back to them and grinned triumphantly. 'But it seems you failed. How disappointing,' she said with a mocking pout, turning back and typing in her password.

With a sideways glance at Mary, Molly took a step closer. 'What makes you think we failed, Miss Hunter?'

Violet ignored her as the program started up, numbers racing across the screen. She smiled in relief. Suddenly, the numbers began running backwards, deleting themselves. 'No, no, no!' Violet cried, dropping the gun on the table and frantically typing, trying to stop the erasure.

'Great timing, Anthea.' Molly praised the hacker.

'Couldn't have done it without you, love.'

'What did you do?' Violet shouted in fury, watching as her network was destroyed from the inside out, courtesy of the Flatline.

'It's a Trojan horse I placed in your computer. All it needed was you to log in and then my lovely hacker was able to wander inside and completely obliterate the drive and your entire network.'

'I may have added my own little touch, as well,' Mary interrupted with a wicked smile.

Violet stared at her in furious confusion. Suddenly, the computer exploded into flames, the force sending her flying backwards, her head smacking against the cement, and she fell limp.

'Oh, I like it!' Molly cried out happily, clapping her hands. Mary beamed at her praise. Anthea groaned fondly at the pyromaniac.

Suddenly from the hallway came the sound of raised voices. Immediately dropping their joyful smiles, Molly and Mary whirled to face the new attackers. To their complete surprise and utter horror, instead of another pair of ninjas bursting through the doorway, their boyfriends stumbled inside, their hands handcuffed together behind their backs and arguing bitterly.

'Goddamnit, Sherlock, just hold on…' John cursed as he was jerked around by the Consulting Detective. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled the shorter man behind him.

'They just left us, John. I'm not  _escaping_  until I know why and what's… going… on…' he trailed off as he took in the pile of ninja bodies and the two familiar women in formfitting black catsuits.

'Sherlock, unlock this right now! I can't see a bloody thing, what's happening?' John yanked on the handcuffs until he'd shifted enough to see over his shoulder, his mouth gaping open at the sight before him.

Unable to move from shock, Molly and Mary simple watched helplessly as their boyfriends blinked repeatedly, their eyes wide and their mouths wider.

'We can explain…' Mary broke the silence.

'We can?' Molly looked at her, incredulous.

'Yes,' Mary hissed angrily. 'You see, we're… um… that is….Molly and I were… er….'

'Nice explaining, Watson,' Anthea commented dryly over the comm.

'Shut up,' Mary grumbled and crossed her arms. From behind them, one of the men groaned and began to sit up. Molly automatically whirled around, knocking him out with an expertly maneuvered kick to the head. Sheepishly, she turned back around, not noticing how Sherlock's breathing had quickened.

'You're not at the spa,' Sherlock commented dumbly.

Molly shook her head and bit her lip. 'Um, no. Not really my thing.'

Sherlock cleared his throat as he raked his gaze up and down her spandex-covered body and commented distractedly, 'Mycroft, I presume.'

'Yeah,' she bit her lip.

'You work for Mycroft?' John shouted over his shoulder, straining to keep Mary in his line of sight.

'Oh,' Mary exclaimed, rushing over to the pair and easily removing the handcuffs that bound them together. Holding the silver metal, she fiddled with the clasp as she replied to him, 'For about three years now. He calls us his 'Angels'.'

Molly wrung her hands in worry as she flicked her gaze up to Sherlock. 'I'm sorry I didn't tell you, it's just-mmpff!'

Now free from his restraints, Sherlock rushed over to Molly, gripping her face and kissing her passionately. Molly squeaked in surprise, relief washing over her that he wasn't upset, before she closed her eyes and sunk into the kiss. His hands pulled her close and she hauled herself closer, her heels giving her another four-inches that she normally lacked, something Sherlock seemed to appreciate if his hum of approval was anything to go by.

'Oi!' John interrupted brusquely. 'Am I the only one who's upset by the fact that my  _girlfriend_ leads a secret life?'

Panting and disheveled, Sherlock smirked down at Molly with a wicked gleam in his eye before bending down and flipping her over his shoulder.

'Oh!' She exclaimed before dissolving into giggles.

'Yes,' Sherlock responded dryly as he walked past the gobsmacked John. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, my 'Angel' and I have some… confessing to do.'

Molly giggled and waved an upside-down goodbye to Mary as Sherlock carried her out the door. She knew John would come around eventually and probably be just as 'interested' in their job as Sherlock.

'I'll see you Monday, Anthea.'

'You'd better make that Wednesday,' Sherlock smirked above her.

Molly giggled even as her face turned crimson.

Before Anthea could respond with her typical snark, Molly plucked the mic from her ear and tossed it to the ground.


	38. Pray Silence for the Best Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dear friend of mine was married yesterday and with all the wedding to-do, I felt inspired to write a cute Sherlolly drabble. Enjoy!

How had he gotten himself into this?

He was going to sound like an idiot.

Everyone would either laugh  _at_ him or not laugh  _at all_. They’d just stare at him pityingly.

Oh, God.

Did he even have his cards?

In a rush of panic, John brushed a hand over his jacket, breathing a strained sigh of relief when he felt the lump in the inner pocket. His brow was sweaty and his hands trembled violently with nerves as it was, forgetting his notes would just be brilliant.

Beside him, Sherlock snickered and leaned close to whisper over the clattering of glass and murmurs. ‘You are perfectly capable of speaking in public. If  _I_ can pull off an acceptable speech  _while solving a murder_ , you will do just fine.’

John narrowed his eyes. ‘This new, nice-Sherlock is rather unsettling.’

‘Well, get used to it, Doctor Watson. Because he’s here to stay,’ Sherlock smirked, turning his attention to the person on his other side.

Before John could respond, a tinkling of glass accompanied a loud voice calling for attention. ‘Pray silence for the best man!’

Instantly, the room quieted and turned to the head table.

Standing to his feet, John swallowed nervously and pulled the cards from his pocket. He cleared his throat and forced a smile as he glanced up at the audience. ‘For those of you who don’t know, I’m John Watson, best friend and keeper of the groom. The latter being a role I happily relinquish today to someone far more capable of keeping him.’

The audience tittered and he relaxed slightly, pulling out the telegrams of those who were unable to come. ‘First, the telegrams.’

* * *

John tugged his tie, feeling a bit constricted, as he set the telegrams back on the table and picked up his handwritten notes. This was now all on him. He took a deep, somewhat shaky breath, and began.

‘Five years ago, I was alone. Hurting, wounded, angry, and, in the words of a not-so-wise man, ‘bored out of my vacant mind.’’ The audience chuckled, bolstering John’s courage.

‘Then this rather unusual man dropped into my life. And I haven’t had a moment’s peace since. I didn’t miss the boredom, but I did sometimes yearn for the days when I wasn’t awoken at unholy hours in the morning by a man-child sod conducting exploding experiments in the kitchen and setting the table ablaze.’

‘God, it was  _one_ time,’ Sherlock grumbled beside him.

John smiled and glanced down at the pouting detective. ‘One time… to  _that_  table. Are we forgetting the Acid Incident of 2011?’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but kept his lips pressed firmly closed.

Turning back to the laughing audience, John smiled and relaxed. ‘As most of you can guess, living with Sherlock Holmes is no small feat. And I must admit, I never expected to live with him as long as I did. In fact, after the first week, I honestly didn’t expect to  _live_.’

‘I should have asked Graham to be my best man, instead.’ Sherlock crossed his arms and glared up at John.

‘It’s Greg, you twit!’ Lestrade called from a nearby table. Sherlock simply waved him off.

‘Still, here I am. Alive, and surprisingly, whole. More so than when I first met Sherlock.’ John turned slightly to address Sherlock directly. ‘You were the most obstinate, insufferable, pain in the arse that I’d ever met-’

‘Oh, how touching.’

‘-but without you, I wouldn’t be here. In the darkest place I’d ever been, you grabbed me by the hand and dragged me back into life. Over and over again, you have saved my life, even by sacrificing your own.’

John caught the slight sheen in Sherlock’s eyes, before the detective schooled his features into his normal grouchy expression. ‘ _Technically,_  I didn’t. If you choose to wax poetic, please refrain from-’

‘Shut it.’ John demanded good-naturedly and shook his head with a sigh. ‘I’m going to get through this speech and any more interruptions will only make me prolong it with stories I’m fairly certain you don’t want to be shared.’

Only the slight twitch of his nose gave away Sherlock’s annoyance, but he obediently remained silent.

‘Now, where was I….?’ John frowned before exclaiming, ‘Oh, yes. You died. Well, not really. But it was pretty damn believable. But you had professional help.’

Adopting a softer tone, he glanced to the person sitting beside Sherlock. ‘And your accomplice in that performance is now your partner in life.’

Leaning against her husband’s arm, Molly Holmes hid her flaming cheeks as she peeked up at John.

‘Molly Hooper-’

‘Holmes,’ Sherlock interjected with a defiant pout.

John quirked an eyebrow. ‘I was getting there.’

‘Well, get there faster,’ the groom grumbled, placing a possessive arm around Molly’s shoulders and pulling her tight against his body, her white gown rustling.

‘As I was saying, Molly  _Holmes_ , you were quiet, kind, and quite smitten with our oblivious detective when I first met you.’ Molly flushed in embarrassment, but the smile on her glowing face didn’t diminish. ‘Then I watched as you fell out of your infatuation with Sherlock and your love for him grew. I didn’t understand it. Until he came back. And I saw how he treated you with kindness and consideration, something I’d tried to beat into that thick skull of his for years. Not to boast, but I succeeded to an extent. But you were always the angel on his shoulder, guiding him. You opened him to sentiment and broke the barrier on his heart.’

Sherlock huffed. ‘ _Mycroft_  even would have been a better choice.’ Smiling, Molly shook her head and pressed a kiss to his lips to pacify him.

Ignoring him, John continued. ‘It took me a while to realize after his return from the dead that he’d realized what you meant to him and that his kindness to you was out of love, not because he felt he owed you for what you’d done to help him. Of course, this is Sherlock,’ he scoffed with a smirk. ‘Since when has he done anything for anyone because he felt obligated?’

Molly giggled and turned her face into Sherlock’s shoulder as her new husband’s pout deepened.

‘Slowly, his shows of kindness extended out from you and began to encompass all of us.’ The atmosphere of the reception hall was quiet and solemn as John set down his notes. ‘I know my speech is supposed to be about Sherlock. But without you, Molly, he wouldn’t be who he is today. He can still be the same insufferable man-child he once was. But he’s learning. He taught you to see with eyes of deduction. But you taught him to see with eyes of compassion. You complement him, and he you, in ways no one expected and I’m honored to call you both my dearest friends.’

Reaching down, he picked up his champagne glass. The guests followed suit, raising their glasses in toast.

‘May your marriage be blessed with love, murders, and mysteries.’ Everyone chuckled as John raised his glass high. ‘To Sherlock and Molly, the Consulting Detective and his Pathologist.’

As their guests drank to their future, the bride and groom smiled at each other and kissed, looking forward to a wonderful life. 


	39. Handsy Husband

‘Sherlock, stop.’

‘But I’m bored.’

‘I will kill you again if you don’t stop whining. Now put it back.’ Molly blew her hair from in front of her face and carefully squeezed the pipette, letting one tiny drop fall into the vial. 

‘Mooolleeee...’ Sherlock dragged out her name in a low plea as he regretfully set down the bottle of hydrochloric acid. ‘I’m bored.’ 

‘Then go home, I have work to do. I can’t be babysitting you.’ She swirled the liquid around slowly, watching as it turned a deep red.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t want to go home, you’re not there.’

‘That’s sweet, love, but eventually you’re going to have to learn to do things on your own again. The honeymoon phase is over.’

He pursed his lips and mumbled, ‘ _I_ don’t think it is.’

Molly smiled to herself, feeling a blush steal up her neck. 

Ten minutes passed in silence before Sherlock started fidgeting again. Molly ignored him and focused on her work. So absorbed in her experiments, she missed him walking up behind her until his arms suddenly wrapped around her waist and he nuzzled his face into her neck.

She gasped in surprise and flinched, knocking over several vials which proceeded to spill across the workbench and splatter on their clothed legs and arms. Ominous sizzling and smoking immediately filled the lab.

‘Oh, now look what you’ve done!’ She exclaimed as the alarms sounded, warning of a potential chemical danger. Huffing, she grabbed her handsy husband and dragged him to the emergency shower. Sherlock followed much too willingly, a smile on his face.

‘Mmm, yes. Unfortunate. Although it does save me having to wait until we get back to Baker Street to get you in the shower.’

‘Sherlock!’


	40. Of Tables and Wifely Wiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous Tumblr Prompt: Sherlock and Molly go furniture shopping together for their new home- they end up getting kicked out for prating about

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tweaked slightly.

‘Get. Off.’

With a petulant grunt, Sherlock hopped down from the luscious, king-sized bed and stalked over to her. Despite towering above her by more than a foot, Molly felt not the least bit intimidated as she glared up at him with her best ‘disapproving’ frown.

‘We have to test it out before we buy it,’ he argued.

Rolling her eyes, Molly turned away and headed in the opposite direction, calling over her shoulder as she went. ‘We’re not buying it, because we already have a perfectly fine bed. When it’s at the end of its life, _then_ we’ll get a new one.’

Sherlock had followed her obediently, but his eyes lit up in devious inspiration at her conditions. Without even turning around, Molly knew what he was planning and immediately destroyed his plans.

‘And if you set fire to it like you did the table, I’ll buy a single bed and you can sleep on the couch!’

Grumbling about pigheaded wives, Sherlock shuffled along. ‘I don’t see why we have to buy a new table, we never use it for eating. Why not invest in a nice, convenient lab bench? With a bone saw or two?’

‘Because we are living in a flat, not a morgue.’

Molly flushed when several people around them overheard and turned to stare in horror.

‘Besides, we’re going to need a table for guests and our future children. We can’t eat out of take-away cartons on the sofa forever.’

‘We can if we  _believe_  we can,’ he retorted sarcastically.

Having finally arrived at the kitchen department, Molly began perusing the tables. Sherlock pulled out a chair and plopped into it like a teenager.

‘This is nice,’ Molly commented on a deep mahogany piece.

He slouched further in his seat with a pout. ‘No _pe_.’

Pursing her lips, Molly turned to him with a huff. ‘Why not?’

He stood and sauntered over to her, sneering down at the table as he knocked on it harshly. ‘It’s fake. Plywood covered by a thin layer of painted veneer. Cheap, will be ruined after one experiment, and not something I’m going to tolerate  _in my home_.’

‘Then  _pick something else,_ ’ Molly sighed.  

Weaving through the displays with a slump in his shoulders of a burdened man, he scoffed at each table, Molly following behind.

‘What do you think of this one?’ She pointed at a marble-topped option, white legs setting it higher up, perfect for setting up their microscopes when they experiment. ‘We can get stools to go with it!’

Sherlock looked it over, his brow furrowed in thought and his eyes narrowed. He knocked on the top, humming in appreciation at the quality. He leaned his weight against it to test its durability and jiggled it to test its balance. ‘Not bad,’ he murmured. He picked up the tag and glanced at the description. ‘Sealed, non-porous, two-year warranty…’

‘So?’ Molly shifted on her tiptoes eagerly. ‘Can we get it?’

Sherlock straightened and pursed his lips. ‘No.’

‘Uuugh!’ Molly threw her hands in the air. ‘Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s perfect!’

‘I don’t like white.’

‘So get it in a different colour!’

‘I don’t like the other options.’

‘So buy it in white and paint it yourself!’

‘I don’t like arts and crafts,’ he said in disgust.

‘It’s the perfect table and your only qualm is that it’s  _white_?’

‘Mmm, ye _p._ ’

‘Look, Mister Interior Design Snob,’ Molly poked a finger under his nose. ‘I want this table. You set fire to the last one with your experiment in boredom and instantaneous combustion. So, you owe me a new table. And I want this one. Now, buy it.’

‘No.’

By now, several other customers had stopped to listen to the sparring couple, recognizing the great Sherlock Holmes and smiling at the petite spitfire putting him in his place.

‘You wouldn’t let me buy the bed, I’m not letting you buy the table.’ He crossed his arms and stared her down.

Molly’s mouth dropped open in indignation. ‘That is not a fair argument! We already have a bed, but we currently do  _not_  have a table!’

‘If you want this table, you’re going to have to let me buy that bed.’

‘This is not up for discussion.’ Molly stomped her foot. ‘Buy. The. Table.’

‘Remember when you used to persuade me to do what you wanted with a sweet smile and a sexy little innuendo?’ Sherlock sighed wistfully. ‘I miss those days.’

Molly quirked an eyebrow and smiled wickedly. ‘You want sexy? Okay.’ She stepped into his space and traced a finger along the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock froze in surprise as she drawled seductively, ‘If you buy that bed, I’ll get some black satin sheets and a sleek little negligee which I will slip off and drop at the foot of the bed.’

Sherlock swallowed thickly at the picture she was painting, his eyes widening and his pupils dilating.

‘Then I’ll slide under the sheets… naked…wanting…’ She teased her fingers around the top button of his shirt, relishing triumphantly the lustful look in her husband’s eyes. Just as he turned to putty in her hands, she fisted the front of his collar and pulled him down to eye level with a snarl. ‘And you’ll be on the sofa. Alone.’

His face dropped and he groaned in disappointment.

Letting go, Molly brushed the wrinkles from his shirt and smiled prettily up at him. ‘Understood?’

‘Y-yes,’ he stammered.

‘So, will I be getting that table?’

He nodded dumbly, wondering what happened to the sweet pathologist he’d married. Not that he didn’t adore the little seductress she displayed sometimes, but he really missed being able to wrap her around his finger with a ruffle of his hair.

When had their roles been reversed?

‘Good.’ She smiled brightly and turned away with a bounce in her step to find a store associate.

Shaking himself from his daze, Sherlock followed with a thoughtful frown. Well, she may have him wrapped around her finger… but he was going to get that bed one way or another.

‘And if anything happens to our bed, Sherlock Holmes, you’ll have to take cold showers for a month!’ Molly called over her shoulder.

He paused and thought about it for a moment, then shook his head.  _Not worth it._


	41. Spontaneity

There’s a dead body on her floor.

Naked and stiff, the poor man was laid supine upon the cold tile, the morgue sheet thankfully covering him up to his abdomen. The sharp, precise stab wounds in his chest stuck out horrifically on his pale body.

Heaving a sigh, Molly turned around and headed to the lab, where Sherlock was buried in slides.

‘Sherlock?’ She poked his shoulder.

He acknowledged her with a raised eyebrow, but did not turn his head.

‘Why is Mister Valaclava on the floor?’

‘He was in my way,’ he murmured, twisting the dials on the microscope.

Molly poked him again with a frown on her face. ‘So you pushed him onto the floor?’

‘I did not _push_ him anywhere. I carefully relegated his position to a more convenient location. Which was, as it happens, the floor. Don’t worry, it is clean.’

‘What is so important that you needed to relocate my murder victim?’ Her eyes widened as she realized what she said. ‘I mean, _the_ murder victim, not _mine_ , I’d never… I didn’t…’

She cut herself off by biting her lip. Sherlock chuckled and finally pulled away from the microscope, lifting something from under the bench and presenting it to her with a flourish.

‘This is.’

‘A picnic basket?’ Molly frowned in confusion.

‘The weather was not conducive to eating in the park, so I determined the next best location would be the morgue. It is, after all, where we spend the most time together. A special place, as John would say.’ Sherlock’s proud smile slowly faded to a puppy-dog pout at her stunned silence. ‘I was under the impression a spontaneous picnic would be an appropriate third date. Was I misinformed?’

Her heart completely melted and she took the wicker basket from his hands with a beaming smile. ‘Very appropriate.’ She lifted one side and peeked at the array of finger foods, most likely created at the hands of one Mrs Hudson. ‘Although, a morgue slab isn’t the most sanitary of picnic tables.’

‘I prepared it with the correct amount of chemical cleaner. We are in no danger from potential foreign diseases.’ He seemed almost affronted that she thought he’d be so careless.

Grabbing his hand, Molly tugged him off the stool. ‘As touched as I am, Sherlock, the only thing I want to do on a morgue slab is cut open a dead body.’

Sherlock watched as she spread out the checkered blanket he’d brought on the floor beside the lab bench. ‘I should have taken your potential squeamishness into consideration.’

From her seat on the floor, Molly stared up at his defeated face and felt her heart melt a little more at how hard he was trying. With a firm tug, she pulled him down beside her and pressed a kiss to his cheek, not noticing how he froze at her spontaneous action. ‘It’s perfect, Sherlock. Now, let’s eat before the interns interrupt this odd, yet sweet date.’

As she fussed with the basket, Sherlock stared at her, a dazed look in his eyes.

Definitely not a failed date. And already going much better than he’d planned.

His hand hesitantly touched his cheek, still warm from her lips.

Much better indeed.


	42. Dyes and Detours

Sherlock hadn’t intended to break in. He had knocked, just like he was supposed to, albeit 25 minutes early. But Molly hadn’t answered. He could faintly hear the hum of her hair dryer and deduced she was preparing for their date. Their third date.

He grinned to himself. He had researched enough Cosmo and watched enough crap telly to know what the third date meant to a woman. And based on Molly’s body language for the past seven years, she was on the same page as him. The only thing he didn’t know is if he would be able to wait until the end of the evening to nullify that ridiculous moniker ‘the Virgin.’

_No sense in my waiting out here for twenty minutes._ He let himself in and tossed his coat onto the cluttered table by the door.

Unfortunately, Toby chose that moment to come careening from the other room directly in Sherlock’s path. Though usually graceful and quite nimble (if he did say so himself), Sherlock found himself toppling over the cat, his arms flailing and knocking into the table, all Molly’s knick-knacks dropping heavily on and around him.

Immediately, the humming stopped and a frantic Molly rushed into the room, her dressing gown belted haphazardly, wielding the unplugged hair dryer like a gun.

‘Sherlock Holmes!’ She exclaimed in a mixture of frustration and relief. Setting the dryer on the nearby counter, she placed a hand over her heart. ‘What have I told you about breaking in here?’

Sherlock didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

From the moment Molly had rushed in, all thoughts had flown out of his head. He didn’t even realize the undignified position he was in, sprawled on the floor with a doily on his head.

All he saw was Molly.

In her loose dressing gown.

And her slightly damp hair.

Her slightly damp  _black_  hair.

Several seconds passed in horrified silence before his shock wore off and anger seeped into every bone.

‘What did you do?’ He hissed as he slowly stood and dragged the doily from his head.

‘What did  _I_ do? You’re the one who broke in! You’re not even supposed to be here for 20 minutes!’ Molly crossed her arms over her chest.

He marched over to her and glowered at her, unsure of exactly  _why_ he was angry, but not letting that stop the fury rising in him. ‘What. Did. You. Do?’ He repeated, his eyes raking over her long,  _black_  hair.

‘Wha-M-my hair?’ She looked down at the offending strands, fingering the ends. ‘I dyed it... earlier this morning.’

‘Why?’ He snapped.

Her hands on her hips and hackles raised, Molly stuck her chin out. ‘Because I felt like a change. What’s it to you?’

He gaped. What’s it to him? It’s everything! Molly wasn’t the Woman, with hair black as coal and a heart to match. Molly was warmth and sunshine, with hair that was soft and shimmered with strands of amber, which begged to be sifted through and tugged, perfect for tilting her head back to kiss her.

He gestured at the atrocity with disgust. ‘I-it… It looks awful!’

She blanched, hurt filling her eyes, before she dropped her gaze to the floor, all her previous bravado gone. ‘It’s only a temporary dye. I thought I’d try something new out, instead of being plain old mousey Molly.’ She swallowed thickly, twisting the knot of her robe, and whispered, ‘I didn’t think it looked that bad.’

Hastily trying to undo his inadvertent insult, Sherlock stammered, ‘It’s not  _awful_ , so much as it’s not…you.’

She looked up at him and blinked in surprise.

‘You are Molly. And Molly has warm, brown hair that matches her eyes and amber highlights that are quite flattering and surprisingly natural, a mystery I haven’t yet solved, since you work in a morgue and live in  _London_. Molly isn’t… this.’ He nodded at her dyed hair and pursed his lips.

‘Oh,’ she breathed, a warm blush suffusing her cheeks. ‘I… I could always wash it out.’

Sherlock beamed. ‘I suggest you do so. Immediately.’

‘Well, i-it takes somewhere between 25 to 30 washes to get it out,’ she bemoaned, grabbing a fistful and pouting at it. ‘That would take all night.’

Sherlock, however, was beginning to see an intriguing detour to the end of the evening and grabbed her hand, eagerly tugging her back toward the bathroom.

‘What are you doing?’ Molly tried half-heartedly to pull her hand from his grasp.

‘You’ll need assistance, obviously. Not only to prevent drying out from excessive shampooing, but you’ll need someone to make sure you’re cleansing evenly.’

‘Oh?’ Molly squeaked as she let herself be pulled into her bathroom. Sherlock looked back at her stunned face with a smile.

‘Don’t worry. I’m quite proficient in hair care. How do you think my hair stays healthy and tamed in this humidity?’

Molly watched with wide eyes as he turned on the tap, then proceeded to unbutton his shirt.

Shrieking, she covered her eyes and whirled about. ‘What are you doing?!’

‘I’m hardly going to sacrifice my best shirt because of your hair dye catastrophe.’

‘Oi!’ She huffed. 

Suddenly, arms surrounded her waist, a naked chest pressed against her back and a nose nuzzled her neck. ‘Sherlock?’ She breathed, asking once more ‘What are you doing?’

‘Mmmm, it would be a shame to waste 30 sequential showers with bashfulness, Doctor Hooper,’ he grumbled into her neck as he untied the knot at her waist.

‘Oh?’

He kissed her shoulder and slipped the dressing gown from her body.

‘Oh!’


	43. Kitty Slippers

God, he hated them.

Molly was practical and sensible in almost every area of her life; work, home, fashion.

But she clung to her novelty cat slippers like a possessive mama bear.

They were old, gnarly, balding in spots, and thread-bare on the balls of the foot. She wore them all the time she was at home, from the moment she walked through the door until she left again. And Sherlock despised them, they were an atrocity to the aesthetically-pleasing chaos of Baker Street.

He once tried to incinerate them. Unfortunately, Molly had walked in just before he was able to make any progress and he hadn’t even been allowed to sleep on the _couch_ for a week.

Yes, he hated those slippers.

But as Molly shuffled out of their bedroom in her hideous slippers, her hair mussed from sleep, dressed in his shirt with the buttons done up haphazardly and blew him a kiss on her way to the kettle, he had to admit…

…they may be growing on him.


	44. This Means War

Not for the first time, Mycroft pulled on his tie.

It wasn’t that he was unaccustomed to wearing ties. In fact, he wore them on a daily basis and was quite fond of them. He liked to dress smartly, it gave him an air of confidence and superiority that lends itself rather handy in his line of work. Not to mention, the sight of him in a waistcoat did things to Anthea. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but he was rather fond of her shows of appreciation.

No, ties weren’t the problem. _Thi_ _s_ tie was the problem.

He ran his finger under his collar and sneered.

‘What’s wrong, brother dear?’ Sherlock slid into the seat beside him with a smirk. ‘Can’t stomach wearing a cherry-patterned tie?’

‘It’s… bearable.’

Sherlock tossed his head back and laughed. ‘You hate it, we both know it. Now take it off!’

‘And have hurt Molly’s feelings?’ Mycroft sniffed and straightened up, pressing his chest (and the tie) out proudly. ‘Never.’

 They sat in silence for several minutes and watched the couple dancing about the floor.

‘She’s quite lovely. Though, how you ever managed to deserve her is a mystery even _you_ will never solve,’ Mycroft commented as Molly twirled by in John’s arms, her white dress rustling about.

‘But that won’t stop me from trying,’ Sherlock retorted and stood, straightening his jacket and tie. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s about time I steal my wife back from Three Continents Watson.’

Mycroft chuckled lazily and waved him away.

Sherlock hadn’t gone more than two steps when he turned back with a wicked smile. ‘You do realize that Molly only asked you to wear that in order to make you uncomfortable.’

The smile dropped off Mycroft’s face.

‘When she gave it to you, didn’t you think it was an odd request? The only groomsman to wear a cherry-covered tie?’ Sherlock shook his head woefully at Mycroft’s dumbfounded expression.

Mycroft watched dumbly as his brother walked over and swept his bride away from John with a growl. Molly giggled and threaded her fingers behind his neck.

She was innocent and sweet, he refused to believe she would be so devious…

Suddenly, Molly turned her head and locked eyes with him over Sherlock’s shoulder. With a cheeky wink, she smiled widely, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

He narrowed his eyes in challenge. _Oh, sister dear._ _This means war._


	45. When Despair Holds Me For Ransom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Please Please : Molly leaves the country after the Moriarty problem is solved. Reunion after a year????
> 
> A/N: Trigger warnings for torture. I maaaay have gone a bit...okay, a lot more angsty than usual with this one.

‘Good golly, Miss Molly!’ The Irish voice taunted. Molly whimpered as he drew the blade down her cheek, blood trailing down her neck in its wake. Moriarty laughed and stepped back from her shackled form.

‘How did I miss you the first time round? The woman that mattered most. You ruined my plans, Molly love.’ He chastised her with a frown.

Her tears burned the cuts on her face as they fell. Days she’d been here, crying out for Sherlock, for anyone, to save her from the madman.

‘Have you given up yet? That pathetic happiness, that dream of hope, have I burned it out of you yet?’

‘Never,’ she spat breathlessly.

Moriarty tsked and pouted. ‘Oh, dear.’ He shrugged his shoulders and sighed mockingly. ‘Well, best not waste any more time then.’

He lunged forward, jabbing the knife into her stomach. Molly gasped in shock and pain.

Moriarty used his other hand to grip her hair and bend her head back. His black eyes bored into her as he smirked, ‘Say hi to the angels for me, love.’

With a snarl, he twisted the knife.

Molly screamed in agony.

Suddenly, the metal shackles were replaced with soft sheets and the empty black eyes vanished. Her eyes snapped open and, gasping for breath, Molly struggled under the binding covers, sweat pouring off her body and nausea rolling over her in waves.

She scrambled out of the bed and barely made it to the bathroom before retching.

Drained and exhausted, she rested her head against the cool porcelain, trying to calm her racing heart.

A year gone. And the nightmares continued.

The stab wound in her stomach had healed.

The cuts on her arms and face were gone.

Moriarty was officially six feet under.

The world continued to turn.

But Molly was still trapped in her mind, fighting a demon that would never be defeated.

Rising shakily to her feet, she rinsed her mouth, taking care not to look at herself in the mirror above the sink. She knew what she’d see. A gaunt face lined with fear and exhaustion, eyes that no longer sparkled with unwavering optimism, and a mouth that refused to lift in the bare semblance of a smile.

Unable to return to the clutches of her nightmares, she felt her way down the hall toward the kitchen, the darkness of her flat welcoming. Instead of fearing what may be lurking in the shadows, she breathed in relief at being unseen, the darkness her constant companion. The moonlight streaming through the window was enough to illuminate her way around the kettle, her hands still trembling as she filled it. In the quiet, she could hear the faint sounds of the New York City streets as the clubs began closing and people stumbled outside. 

Suddenly, the shadows shifted and her heart skipped in fear, her eyes widened for just a moment before relaxing in recognition at the moonlit figure.

Stepping closer, the gentle moonlight caressing the side of his face, Sherlock Holmes ran his gloved hand along the countertop until he stood mere centimeters from her. He looked exactly the same as he did the last time Molly had seen him, one year ago. Her heart ached at the familiar curls dangling over his forehead and the tailored, wool Belstaff and the knotted scarf around his neck.

‘Molly,’ he rumbled, the deep, rich baritone washing over her.

Raising tired eyes to his, she offered, ‘Tea?’

His nose twitched in annoyance. ‘No.’ Then added as an afterthought, ‘Thank you.’

With a sigh, Molly walked around him and into her small lounge, turning on the lamp and folding herself into the corner of the sofa, her mug cradled in her hands. ‘Why are you here?’

Having followed, Sherlock sat down stiffly on the other end of the couch and angled his body toward her. ‘London is… different without you. I have come to ask you to return.’

She ran her finger along the rim of her mug, but didn’t respond.

‘Molly,’ Sherlock breathed and inched closer, laying his hand on the cushion between them. ‘I know you left to start over, to escape the aftermath of everything that happened. But are you really healing here? Away from everything you’ve known and everyone who lo... cares for you?’

She stared down at the tepid green liquid and felt tears fill her eyes.

Beside her, Sherlock shifted hesitantly. ‘I would have come sooner, but there were… complications following the manner of Moriarty’s demise.’

‘I didn’t want you to come at all.’

He cocked his head as he narrowed his eyes at her, clearly trying to deduce if she was telling the truth. ‘You truly mean that.’ He seemed incredulous and more than a bit hurt.

‘Yes.’ Her gaze bored into the carpeted floor.

‘Why? I thought we were… friends?’ He seemed hesitant to voice the word.

Molly shifted down into the sofa and took a shaky sip of tea. ‘Friends. Yes,  _that’s_  what we were,’ she snapped.

He drew back at the sarcastic tone, clearly surprised. ‘Molly, I-’

‘You forgot about me.’ She tried to sound nonchalant, but she couldn’t fight the rising tide of fury and rage. Her hands clenched and she set the cup down forcefully, tea sloshing over the sides. ‘How could you?’ She lifted her face to stare blankly at the wall in front of her, letting her buried anger speak for her. ‘I helped you, I saved you and your friends, I stuck by you through every goddamn stupid thing you  _ever did!_ And when I needed you, when it came time for you to prove that I mattered, you  _failed._ I nearly died, Sherlock. Moriarty tried to kill me… and he almost succeeded.’

Her hands clutched helplessly at her abdomen, the phantom feeling of the knife plunging into her, bringing back all the memories and despair she’d been desperately fighting against. Pulling her legs into her chest, she buried her face in her knees and focused on the rhythm of her breathing and blocking out the hollow feeling in her heart, fighting the urge to cry as she’d been doing for nearly 12 months. She needed to be strong. Because no one else would be strong for her.

Suddenly, a warm body was wrapped around her. The scent, smokey and familiar, enveloped her as tightly as Sherlock did, his arms clutching her to him and pulling her against his chest. She didn’t relent, refusing to capitulate to his out of character display of compassion.

His hands rubbed soothing circles in her arms and his heartbeat in her ear was somewhat erratic, but calming. He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his breath brushing her ear as he spoke softly. ‘I’m sorry, Molly. I’m so, so very sorry. You waited for me to realize you counted. You waited for me to rescue you from Moriarty. But I failed you and it nearly cost me everything I hold dear. I will regret that for the rest of my life, and I’m sorry you felt you had to move to another country to escape what he did to you. What I, by proxy, did to you.’

Molly sniffled against the sudden rise of tears, reluctantly relaxing the death grip on her knees and focusing on the now-steady heartbeat against her cheek.

* * *

Sherlock felt her body soften ever so slightly and placed his chin atop her head. All the words he’d wanted to say, but could never think of, were suddenly spilling forth and he couldn’t stop them if he tried. He’d waited long enough to say them…   _she’d_  waited long enough to hear them. ‘But I think of all the times I’ve made you wait, this may be the one I regret the most… making you wait for me to realize that my life is incomplete without you in it; that you were there to help me heal from the Fall and that I needed to do the same for you. And not just because you are the only competent pathologist or that you have saved my life over and over again.’ He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he finally admitted what he’d spent so long denying. ‘But because I love you.’

He felt her melt a little into his embrace as he brushed a soothing hand through her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple, still slick with sweat from an earlier nightmare. His once hard heart that she had so lovingly stolen nearly stopped beating when he saw that Moriarty still tormented her, even from the very pits of Hell.

‘I can’t fix this, Molly. I can’t undo what he did to you. I can tell you that I did everything in my power to find you, but it doesn’t matter. Because I still failed. I almost lost you. And I will  _never_ let that happen again.’

Tears blurred his eyes when she hesitantly released her grip on her knees and her hand reached over and grabbed a fistful of his coat, harsh sobs wracking her small frame.

He hugged her tighter to him and she turned her body into his until she was nestled perfectly against him, soaking his shirt with long-withheld tears. He hated that she was hurting, that she’d spent a year waiting for him to help make it right. But her cries were the beginning of the healing. And he would be thankful for every tear he brushed from her cheeks.

‘It’s my turn to save you now, Molly.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from ‘Shoulders’ by For King and Country... because that line is so very personal to me.


	46. Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I kind of had this idea floating around for a Swan Princess AU... I may write more, but for now, enjoy this little drabble. :)

‘I refuse.’

‘You cannot refuse, Sherlock. Now, put it on.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘No!’

‘Yes!’

‘No-augh!’

It was at this moment the Queen entered the room to see her two grown sons tumbling around the floor like adolescents. ‘William, Mycroft!’

Immediately, the princes jumped to their feet.

‘Mother,’ they greeted her in unison, approaching her one by one to kiss her cheek, hastily straightening their appearances. Sherlock’s curls were frizzed and ruffled and his cheek was rubbed red from where his brother had shoved him into the rug. Mycroft was busy making sure his hair was back in perfect order and his shirt sleeves were wrinkle-free.

She sighed in exasperation. ‘You both are more than twenty years of age. Must you behave like juveniles today of all days? Especially you, William.’

‘Sherlock,’ he grumbled.

‘Today, you are Prince  _William_  and you shall act as such.’ She reached up and tried to bring some order to his curls. ‘When you are married come next week and out from my home, you may call yourself whatever you choose, but until then…’

He begrudgingly conceded under her unspoken ultimatum. She held out her hand to Mycroft, who obediently placed the jewel-encrusted crown in her palm. Gently, she lowered it atop her youngest son’s head. Cupping his cheeks, she beamed up at him. ‘My boy,’ she whispered thickly, tears blurring her vision. ‘Oh, I never thought this day would come.’

‘None of us did, Mother,’ Mycroft quipped. Sherlock glowered at him in response.

‘Hush now, Mycroft. Your day has come and gone and it is time for our William now to be bound in marriage and unite two kingdoms. And to that lovely daughter of King Henry, may he rest in peace.’

Sherlock groaned to himself as his mother proceeded to straighten his waistcoat and tighten the leather belt of his scabbard. ‘Must I?’ He whined. ‘She’s so awkward and plain and she pestered me near to death during our summer ‘holidays.’ And now you’re condemning me to a  _lifetime_ with her!’

‘Watch your manners, William. It has been three years since the horrific murder of her father, three years since you last saw her. She has become a charming and lovely young woman, capable of ruling an entire kingdom. And you are fortunate to call her your betrothed.’

Mycroft smirked at his brother’s plight. ‘Dear William is simply bemoaning the loss of his independence.’

‘Am not,’ Sherlock snapped childishly. ‘I simply think it is ridiculous to announce my engagement to a girl I haven’t seen in three years a week before the wedding!’

‘You’ve been betrothed since birth.’ Mummy narrowed her eyes. ‘If we had told you sooner, would you not have done whatever you could to get out of it?’

He glared at her from the corner of his eye. She was right, of course. He’d have figured out a way to circumvent the agreement between the rulers of the kingdoms. Now, he was being wrangled into a marriage he did not want, to a girl he grew up hating,

‘Very well.’ He placed his hands behind his back. ‘Into battle.’

* * *

‘No.’

‘My lady, it is by royal decree.’

‘I am the princess and I say  _no_!’

‘My lady, please-’

‘No!’

Molly stomped her foot, not caring that she was acting like a toddler instead of a woman of 21. She whipped around, her braided hair snapping out behind her.

Mary, her most trusted maidservant, sighed. ‘Molly, please.’

The princess’ shoulders relaxed slightly at the soft request.

‘It was your father’s wish for you to marry him.’

A tear fell onto her crossed arms. ‘But he does not love me. He does not even care for me… hates me, in fact.’

Mary’s hand gripped her shoulder gently, offering what little comfort she could. ‘It has been three years since you last saw him. Perhaps he has outgrown his obstinate attitude?’

Huffing a laugh, Molly smiled. ‘Yes. Perhaps.’ She relented under the sympathy of her friend and bowed her head, letting Mary place the circlet of gold atop her head. Straightening up, she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. She was the ruler of a kingdom. She was to be married within the week and unite her kingdom with another. She would not let Sherlock Holmes and his disdain hinder that.

The bells of the church began to chime. Mary quickly moved behind her and finished adjusting the many laces of Molly’s gown. Butterflies filled Molly’s stomach and she jumped at the knock on the door. A servant entered and announced the arrival of Sherlock’s father to escort her to the ceremony room, where she would be formally announced as the Prince’s intended, setting into motion the week-long festivities culminating in their wedding.

Not for the first time, a thrill of terror raced up her spine. But she immediately shoved her fears aside and reminded herself that she was royalty, groomed to be Queen, and nothing would stand in her way. Not even an arranged marriage to Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The room was empty of any audience, the King and Queen having decided to reintroduce the betrothed couple before bringing them before the people.

‘Stop fussing,’ Violet chided Sherlock, not for the first time. He scowled at her and made a show of adjusting his ceremonial waistcoat. He slouched in the gilded throne at the front of the room, awaiting the arrival of the princess and his waistcoat was a smidgen too tight, digging into his ribs. If Father didn’t show up with the girl soon, he’d unbutton the darn thing, propriety be damned.

Finally, the doors opened and Father entered, a small slip of a girl on his arm.

Sherlock glared at their approach with deducing eyes. Molly’s gown was of rich burgundy, but simple of design. The mousey brown hair Sherlock remembered was now a shimmering auburn and hung loose around her shoulders. The only adornment she bore was the gold, jewel-encrusted tiara signifying her royal status.

But as they drew close, he noticed the greatest change of all was the way Molly carried herself. Instead of slouched shoulders and a timid countenance she had during childhood, this Molly held herself with confidence and grace, her head held high. Something in his chest lurched at the still familiar sweetness in her expression.

As they drew up to the foot of the stairs, Violet rushed down and greeted Molly with a warm hug.

‘Molly, how lovely you look.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ Molly replied with a soft voice, hesitantly accepting the embrace. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the faint blush on her cheeks at his mother’s praise. Her bearing may speak of confidence, but now that she was closer, he could see the slight tremble in her fingers and the uncertainty in her eyes.

Violet clasped Molly’s hands in hers and gestured to where Sherlock sat on the throne. ‘May I present my son, your betrothed, Prince William. I expect you remember him from your childhood summers.’

‘Y-yes.’ Flicking a gaze up at him, Molly curtsied and bowed her head. ‘A p-pleasure to see you again, Your Highness.’

Under the glares of his parents, Sherlock reluctantly pushed himself from the throne and stood to bow. ‘A pleasure,’ he sneered.

Molly flinched at his tone and her face paled in fear, but she gracefully lifted her chin. ‘I trust the past three years have been good to you? As I recall, you were pursuing experiments in the sciences. Were you successful in your endeavors?’

His hackles rose at what he believed to be her disdain. ‘My endeavors were and  _are_ successful as I was pursuing intellectual studies that would not rot my mind, while you were busy pursuing meaningless romantic fantasies. Yet here you are, abandoning them for the sake of duty. Clearly, my pastime endeavors were more reasonable, not having to be cast aside because of some ludicrous contract of marriage.’

‘William,’ his mother hissed as his father stepped forward with a disapproving frown. The King was halted by a gentle hand on his arm.

Molly smiled up at him sweetly before turning her eyes upon her intended and speaking with nary a waver in her voice.

‘I meant no disrespect, Your Highness. I merely intended to convey my interest in your well-being since our last meeting. I am, in fact, interested in your experiments for they intrigue me, as they did when we were children. Forgive me if my inquiry was inadvertently offending.’ She ducked her head, but not before Sherlock saw the courage in her eyes hiding the hurt he’d inflicted.

He blinked in surprise, his mouth gaping slightly.

‘I-ah… I beg your pardon for my tone.’ He swallowed, feeling oddly off-kilter, and nodded stiffly.

Gracefully, Molly accepted his apology with a smile and turned her gaze to once more converse with his mother.

Sherlock watched her in ponderous confusion. This was not the awkward girl who stammered and stumbled around him. This was a woman who was charm and grace and who spoke in all sincerity when she claimed to be interested in his experiments.

‘How odd,’ he murmured to himself. It seemed his betrothed was unique, a mystery possibly worth solving.


	47. Of Broken Bones and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For WeLoveSherlolly, who asked for a drabble where Molly breaks a leg and Sherlock insists to take care of her.

Molly whined helplessly and flopped back in bed. As gently as possible, she shifted her plaster-covered leg, trying desperately to relieve the itch behind her knee, the one place a fork could not reach. She only managed to jostle her aching leg, crying out in pain.

Toby jumped up on the bed beside her.

‘Bloody stupid cat,’ she cursed the purring feline who proceeded to rub his face along the hard cast that covered her leg from mid-thigh to her toes. ‘This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t tripped me, I wouldn’t be stuck here for a month with an unbearable itch  _that I can’t reach!_ ’ She reached down helplessly, as though scratching the offending cast would relieve her of this horrible discomfort.

Just as she was about to give in to the one of the urges to screech or shriek or cry, her bedroom door suddenly opened and Sherlock swept in, covered in various bags and carrying a heavy-laden tray. Toby scrambled from the room in fear of the intruder.

‘Molly, do try to relax. I could hear your complaining all the way in the kitchen. Also, you need a new lock, I seem to have broken the pathetic excuse for one that your landlord installed twenty-some odd years ago.’ Sherlock set the tray down on her nightstand and began unloading the bags as he continued rambling on in his usual blunt, rapid manner. ‘However, since it was a bit not good that I inadvertently broke it, I suppose I should replace it… although, this would not have happened if you had given me a key. Well, that won’t be a problem again, I shall have a spare made when the new lock is installed…’

Molly gaped as the normally aloof, calculating, and completely uninterested detective chattered away and pulled therapeutic pillows, an extra throw blanket, romantic comedies, and a plethora of chocolates from the bags. She blinked rapidly as she tried to remember if she took pain meds recently and was, perhaps, hallucinating.

‘Erm, hello.’ Molly finally managed to unstick her tongue.

He didn’t acknowledge her stunned greeting, instead wrapping his arm behind her shoulders and lifting her up enough to slip an odd-shaped, but delightfully comfortable, pillow behind her back. He turned back to the bags and Molly tried once again to inquire as to what in the name of sanity he was doing in her flat when he whirled back around and shoved a couple of her white, pain pills into her hand with a gruffly ordered, ‘Swallow.’

She automatically obeyed, accepting the glass of water he offered. Her meds were quick-acting and she could already feel them taking effect as she watched Sherlock sift through the bags.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Hmm,’ he hummed distractedly as he investigated the back of one of the DVDs, a look of horror passing over his features as he read.

‘Why’re you here?’ She asked, her words slurring together slightly. Her head was starting to feel fuzzy and light, her eyelids drooping as she melted into the pillow. The throbbing in her leg was gone and a strange euphoria was bubbling up in her chest.

Sherlock dropped the DVD in disgust and picked up another, his frown deepening as he perused the information. ‘You are in need of assistance. There is a current lack in decent crime and my schedule has become wide open. Helping you is preferable to being smacked by Mrs Hudson for shooting her walls in boredom.’

‘Awww.’ Molly giggled happily and reached out to smack his leg. ‘You’re sssweet.’

He looked down at her in horror. ‘I most certainly am not! You take that back.’

The happy feeling was spreading, making her feel light and giddy. She slapped a hand over her mouth and slid it haphazardly around her face as she giggled. ‘No _pe_. You,’ she poked his leg in emphasis, ‘are sssssssweet, Mister Consssulting Sweetheart.’

‘Molly, do refrain from such silliness.’

Molly laid back against the pillows and shook her head firmly, a pout on her lips. ‘No, I will certainly not… Nopity, nope.’

‘What’s in those pills?’ Sherlock muttered, picking up the bottle.

Molly turned her head to the side and pulled on his shirt, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t look at her. ‘Sherlock,’ she whispered loudly. ‘Sheeeerlock!’

‘What is it, Molly?’ He mumbled.

‘Sherloooock,’ she whined, pulling harder on his shirt. He finally glanced at her, his eyes widening at the dazed look on her face. ‘It’s a ssssecret.’

‘What is?’

She pulled on his shirt until he was kneeling beside the bed, his head level with hers. His face kept going in and out of focus and her eyelids were almost too heavy to hold open. ‘You can’t…’ she licked her lips and tried again. ‘You can’t tell  _anyone_ , but I’m in  _loooove_!’ She widened her eyes dramatically, watching Sherlock’s face blanch at her whispered admission.

She snorted and broke down into laughter, the heady waves rolling over her again. Her head lolled around the pillow, finally finding its way back to stare at Sherlock.

‘Promise… promise not to tell?’ She pouted prettily at him, trying to bat her eyes, but the heavy lids refused to cooperate. His answering smile seemed forced, but he nodded. ‘Good,’ she said as she patted his cheek absentmindedly. ‘Good… Can’t let him know…  _he’s a married man_.’

‘Married?!’ Sherlock jumped to his feet.                                                       

Molly glared up at him. ‘Shhhhhh… some people are  _trying_ to get some rest, Miiiister Holmes.’ She snuggled down in the bed and closed her eyes, too tired to try keeping them open. ‘Ye _p._  Married. Never met hissss wife, though. Don’t think he actually ‘as one.’

Above her, Sherlock growled accusingly. ‘ _Lestrade_.’

The darkness was creeping into the corners of her mind, dragging her into blissful sleep. The lightheadedness was gone, replaced by a comfortable feeling of heavy limbs melting into plush bedding. ‘Greg’sa nice guy… but not m’type. No, my guy… s’married to ‘is work.’ She turned over onto her side, her leg shifting but no pain penetrating the dark, thick fog in her mind, and mumbled sleepily, ‘Least, that’swhat he says. Crime s’an awful wife, me thinks.’

Sherlock exhaled deeply and she felt him place a blanket over her and tuck it around her carefully.

‘Well, he’s an idiot who thought he’d ruined any chance of happiness with you. But I think he’d be worth a shot. After all…’ She felt his lips press gently against her temple just as sleep stole her away. ‘…he’s thinking about getting a divorce.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are most welcome! :)


	48. Phone Lines and Lies: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Pillow Talk AU prompted by Mandy95!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This au takes place in the mid-1950s.

Sherlock endured a withering lecture from John once they had bid the girls goodbye at the café and were in his flat on Baker Street. To be honest, he wasn’t really listening as John ranted on about lies and not standing for it. Sherlock’s mind was already racing with possibilities concerning the winning over of Molly Hooper’s heart.

‘We didn’t want the both of you to find out you shared a party line  _at first,_ ’ John snapped as he paced back and forth in front of the thinking detective. ‘But to  _lie_ outright, change your voice and flirt? That’s not you at all, unless you’re undercover. So, what are you playing at, Sherlock?’

‘She would have known me the  _moment_ I spoke,’ Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Unlike you, she’s not a complete idiot.’ He pinched his fingers together and, in a rare moment of honesty, admitted, ‘I have been meaning to court the elusive Doctor Hooper. But the revelation that she is also  _Molly_ has thrown a wrench in my plans.’

John took several deep breaths, as he looked for any deception in Sherlock’s admission. Not finding any, he pointed an angry finger at him and in a dangerously calm voice said, ‘When this all goes to hell, Sherlock Holmes, _and it will_ , I will not be there to cover you. Molly is Mary’s dearest friend, and I like her. I’ll give you one week to tell her the truth before I do it for you.’

‘One week?’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow and scoffed. ‘By then, she’ll be so in love with me, the truth will hardly matter.’

* * *

True to his intentions, Sherlock had put in every effort to winning over the sweet nurse with a morbid streak to rival his.

Monday he sent a bouquet of calla lilies, her favourite, to her work and took her out to the café for coffees.

On Tuesday, he ducked into the lab when no one else who would recognize him would be around and brought her lunch. Over roast beef sandwiches, he winked at her and puffed in pride at the blush that darkened her cheeks. He left with the promise of dinner the next evening.

After dining at a charming restaurant that Wednesday, Sherlock offered his arm to her and together they strolled through the park under the pink-swept sunset sky. Molly began to feel more comfortable under his attention and spoke less hesitantly about her work and her life. With each admission, Sherlock felt his heart melt a little more. A slight pang hit him as he remembered his duplicity, but he brushed it aside. She’d understand his doubts that she’d give him a chance as Mr Holmes and she’d forgive him; that’s the kind of generous, sweet woman she was.

So, why was he putting off telling her?

* * *

Molly danced around her bedroom, holding her blue dress against her chest and letting the skirt billow around her. The smile hadn’t left her face since she’d met Sherlock; he was everything she’d dreamed the perfect man to be: charming, gallant, sweet, and handsome. Well, almost everything. He was a bit of a clumsy man and not as intelligent as she’d like, he rarely talked of his work and when he did, he seemed to be horribly bored by it.

But he made her feel important and desired. And her feet hadn’t touched the floor all week.

And now, five days after they’d met, she was sure she was in love… well, on her way to it, at least.

She sighed happily and carefully laid her dress on the bed. Sherlock would be calling soon to tell her what time he would be picking her up for their night out dancing. Best make sure the line was free. She picked up the receiver and immediately rolled her eyes.

‘…at the station at 6:10. They are expecting you to pick them up, William.’

‘It’s your turn to get them, I got them last time!’

‘I have an important meeting with the American delegation, I cannot possibly get away.’

‘Oh, come of it, Myc!’ Mr Holmes snapped. ‘You can send one of your minions instead!’

‘I rather think not.’

‘Myc!’

‘ _Billy_!’

‘I had to interrupt this delightful conversation,’ Molly interjected dryly. ‘But I am expecting a call and, if you recall Mr Holmes, our agreement is that the evening calling hours are to remain mine.’

‘I do apologize, Ms Hooper,’ the other man, Myc, said with the smoothness of a politician. ‘ _Billy_ , I trust you will do as asked and I shall see you round Baker Street for our weekly chess game come Sunday.’

The speaker clicked as Mr Holmes’ brother disconnected.

‘Interesting how alike the both of you are, yet your brother has more manners than you will ever boast,’ Molly snapped over the line.

Mr Holmes nearly growled over the line, clearly still disgruntled from his disagreement with his brother. ‘Manners are a societal construct, ever-changing. What you perceive as ‘manners’ are, to those of us who do not need to conform to ridiculous customs, merely an impediment to our way of life. I do not desire to waste time ‘making nice’ just to appease someone like you.’

Clenching her teeth, Molly hissed into the phone with white-knuckled anger, ‘Perhaps you would find others more accommodating were you to employ those manners you sneer at, instead of aggravating everyone around you into hating you!’

She slammed the receiver down in anger. ‘Pompous prat!’

Within minutes, the receiver rang. Fully expecting it to be Sherlock, Molly took a calming breath and let the excitement of her date fill her up again. ‘Hello?’ She answered sweetly.

‘Miss Hooper,’ the familiar rumbling baritone broke over the line.

‘What do you want, Mr Holmes?’ She snapped, her anger returning full force.

He sighed and she swore she heard him fiddling with the cord. ‘I wanted to apologize. My tone was… uncalled for.’

Molly blinked in surprise, her mouth gaping open. ‘Oh? Oh, I-uh… thank you.’

‘That being said-‘

‘Of course,’ Molly mumbled and rolled her eyes. There was always a ‘but’ with him.

‘-I stand by what I said. I see no reason for me to employ ‘manners’ as a way to ease the  _feelings_  of those around me. Our lives would all be much more efficient were we to cease being so infernally offended by anything and everything one says to another.’

Her grip tightened on the receiver. ‘Perhaps that is your opinion. But I happen to disagree. Manners are a basic common courtesy. Why should I suffer a bad day simply because it is slightly inconvenient to you?’

He scoffed over the line. ‘If you take offense at every little thing, then that is your issue. Not mine.’

‘Mr Holmes, we seem to be of equal stubborn, yet opposite minds. I see your point of view, but refuse to accept it as my own. And you obviously feel the same, so let us save us both time and frustration and agree to simply disagree.’

‘I would be agreeable to that arrangement-’

Molly sighed in relief.

‘-if you weren’t insistent on being in the wrong.’

She gripped her hair in anger and whirled around, the cord winding around her torso. ‘Ugh, you are… such an insufferable, arrogant prat!’

‘I should take offense at that, but you are simply expressing an opinion. Which I wholeheartedly agree with you upon.’

‘Then you’ll agree that this conversation has no end in which either of us comes out on top. So, I shall bid you a  _good_  evening, Mr Holmes. I hope it’s as insufferable as you.’

Once again, she slammed the receiver down. When Sherlock called a few minutes later to inform her he was on his way, she tried to keep the frustration from her voice, but his reserved tone at her somewhat short replies wrapped her in guilt at failing.

* * *

Sherlock brushed imaginary wrinkles from his suit jacket as he waited for Molly to open the door. After the call between Mr Holmes and Molly earlier that evening, he’d been wracked with guilt. She’d never forgive him for his deception, not when he’d treated her so abominably on the phone and lied to her about who he was. The bouquet of roses in his hand wouldn’t soften the blow, but it was worth a try.

He would tell her tonight. Get it over and done with and  _pray_ that she forgive him, give them a chance as Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper; the socially-inept detective and the morbidly-sweet nurse. Not the consulting ‘accountant’ and the woman who hated the other side of her party line.

He gulped as he heard her soft call of ‘coming’ from the other side of the door.

The moment the door swung open, any words he’d prepared flew right out an open window in his Mind Palace. Clothed in a sultry dress of midnight blue, Molly was breathtaking. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and shimmered in the light, as did her luminous brown eyes that widened in delight at the flowers he thrust toward her.

‘Oh, they’re beautiful, Sherlock!’ She took them and buried her nose in their soft petals. ‘Mmm, wonderful. Thank you! Come, I’ll put them in a vase.’

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her flat. He followed dumbly, staring at the curves under the luscious fabric swirling around her body. His mouth ran dry when she looked back and smiled at him.

How could he possibly destroy whatever chance he had with this amazing woman?

‘So, which club did you decide on for tonight? I’m feeling rather energetic, so nothing too smokey and jazzy.’ She giggled as she filled the vase with water and carefully arranged the roses into an artful display.

When he didn’t respond, she turned back to him with a frown. ‘Sherlock?’

He blinked out of his daze and instinctively reached out for her hand, pulling her toward him.

‘Oh!’ She laughed as she was crushed against him, his arm across her back holding her to him and her hands pressed against his chest.

‘You, Molly Hooper,’ he growled in his natural baritone, ‘are much too distracting.’

A deep blush darkened her cheeks and down her chest. ‘Th-thank you.’ Her levity faded under his intense stare, but he couldn’t fight it. He knew once she learned of his deception, he would lose her. And his fear dampened any happiness the evening might elicit.

‘Molly…’ He brushed back the strands of hair that had slipped over her shoulder. She shivered at his touch, staring up at him in surprise and more than a hint of uncertainty. ‘You are… more beautiful to me than I will ever be able to express in simple words.’

Molly’s eyes softened at his words, but she still bit her lip, as though uncertain of his sincerity. ‘That’s…s-sweet of you, Sherlock,’ she whispered with a forced smile.

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t believe me.’

‘It’s not that… I’ve just…’ She sighed and looked down as she hesitantly confessed, ‘I’ve never really been the beautiful type. I’m too morbid, too plain, with practical fashion sense that comes across as atrocious.’

Sherlock tightened his grip on her and tilted her chin up until she looked back at him. Her admission angered him; that anyone could make her feel so insecure about herself. She was sweet and generous, passionate and eloquent when angry, compassionate and understanding. And the things she did to him in that dress.

‘Beauty is simply a construct of societal expectations, ever-changing. Everyone has their own idea of beauty.’ Not realizing his slip of the tongue, he cupped her cheek and brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, his heart skipping a beat when she turned her face into his hand. ‘To me, you are the epitome of the word and far exceed any expectations I could ever have fathomed.’

Molly melted at his words.

Slowly, she raised herself up, as he lowered his face closer to hers. Her lips were scant centimeters from his when she suddenly froze.

His heart stopped when he saw realization slowly dawn on her face.

‘Societal… construct…’ she murmured in thought. Her eyes raised to his in horror. ‘M-mister Holmes…?’

 _Damn._  ‘Molly, I-’

‘You’re Mr Holmes.’ She jerked out of his arms and stepped away, tears of humiliation filling her eyes. ‘Oh my god, I’m the biggest idiot in the world!’

‘No, Molly, please, let me explain,’ he beseeched her, his hands reaching out to her as she turned away.

‘This was all just a game to you, some prank to play... changing your voice, being sweet and romantic...’ she accused quietly.

‘It was never a prank, Molly… please…’

Just as his fingertips brushed her shoulder, she flinched and whirled about. He blanched at the tears falling from her hurt-filled eyes. He swallowed the lump in his throat and felt his heart clench painfully. ‘Leave,’ she whispered, her voice wobbling.

‘Moll-’

‘Please, just go.’ She placed her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking slightly before she straightened up purposefully and walked over to her door, opening it in silent demand for him to leave.

He stared at her for a minute, feeling his heart crumble in on itself at her hurt and rejection. Pulling what was left of it together, he walked past her, seeing the tears coursing down her cheeks from the corner of his eye, and into the hall. He whirled around to beseech her once more, only to have the door slammed closed in his face, punctuated by a muffled sob from the other side.

_Well, John. You were right._

_It’s all gone to Hell._


	49. Ice Cream Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Georgina and Gregory Holmes, and if possible, some other Sherlolly child/baby, bonding with their Uncle Mycroft, please?

There was a hole in the wall of his study.

Not a large hole, by any means. But a hole, nonetheless.

He looked around for the culprit, but the room was empty. Following the trail of dog fur, he found the culprit and her accomplice sitting innocently in the kitchen, not-so-innocently eating his secret stash of Haagen-Dazs.

‘Ahem,’ he cleared his throat.

Glancing over her shoulder, seven-year-old Georgina smiled around the spoon sticking out of her mouth. Beneath her swinging feet, Blackbeard slurped away at the dollop of ice cream she’d dropped on the floor. ‘W’sup, ‘ncle Myc?’ She mumbled around her mouthful, pulling the spoon out of her mouth with relish.

‘I’ve got a mystery for you to solve,’ Mycroft began, nonchalantly placing his hands in his pockets and wandering around the island until he was next to her, leaning against the tall counter.

‘Oh?’ Georgina asked, digging out another generous helping of his ice cream and licking it with relish and gusto.

‘Mmhmm,’ he hummed, tilting his head as he stared ahead in thought. ‘You see, there is a hole in the wall of my study. And I’m afraid I am at a loss as to where it came from.’ From the corner of his eye, he saw Georgina shift ever so slightly in her seat.

‘How unfortunate. Are you sure it was not already part of the décor?’

Mycroft barely kept from snorting, coughing to cover it up. ‘Ah, no. It is not. You see, it wasn’t there this morning. Nor was it there this afternoon. So, as you can deduce, the hole appeared there sometime after 4:30 and before I found it just now.’

She nodded in agreement, a drizzle of chocolate leaking out the side of her mouth. He chuckled and handed her a nearby hand towel as he shook his head fondly.

‘Georgina, if your mother found out I left you alone for three minutes and in the space of those minutes you not only managed to eat half a carton of ice cream, but also unlock my weapons safe, arm my umbrella, and fire the hidden dart gun into my wall, she’d never let me babysit again.’

Finally looking up at him, Georgina narrowed her piercing blue eyes, so much like her father’s. ‘You have no physical evidence.’

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. ‘True. There is always the possibility of fingerprints, though.’

‘Impossible, I’ve handled your umbrella, unarmed, of course, on multiple occasions. The presence of my fingerprints would be circumstantial.’

‘Your father’s been giving you lessons again, I see,’ he grumbled. Conceding defeat, he pulled out the other stool and sat down. Blackbeard, having finished his portion of the ice cream, perked up at the sound and proceeded to burrow his head under Mycroft’s hand, staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes.

As he rubbed the dog’s nose with one hand and pulled out another spoon with the other, Mycroft shifted closer to Georgina and stole a spoonful of ice cream from the tub. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, savoring the chocolatey-caramel concoction. ‘I won’t tell your mother this time, as long as you promise never to break into my weapons safe again.’

‘Promise,’ she agreed quickly. Mycroft knew she would keep her word. She may have Sherlock’s cunning and deviousness, but she was tempered with Molly’s honesty and integrity.

‘However…’ he drawled and raised his eyebrows in solemn warning.

Georgina glanced up at him.

‘…you also have to promise never to steal my Haagen-Dazs again.’

She pursed her lips around her spoon and frowned down at the last smidgen left in the tub. While she was considering his proposal, Mycroft snuck in and swiped the remaining spoonful, smirking at her indignant squawk.

‘Fine,’ she sighed and stuck out a sticky, chocolate-caramel-covered hand. ‘Deal.’

They shook hands on it, each mock glaring at the other.

Staring down into the empty ice cream tub, Georgina sighed. ‘I kind of want more.’

Mycroft stood and tossed the carton in the bin before walking to the large freezer. ‘Then it’s a good thing your Aunt Anthea hasn’t found my second hidden stash.’

He pulled out a large box of frozen fish fingers and pulled out a plastic bag half-filled with them. Georgina wrinkled her nose at the sight, shuddering. With a wink and a flourish, he reached into the box again and withdrew a full carton of Haagen-Dazs.

Georgina laughed in delight and clapped her hands, ‘Bravo, Uncle Myc!’

‘Well, we’ve already made a mockery of my diet for the night anyway. And what’s an uncle for, if not to load you up on sugar before sending you back to your father?’ He got two bowls from the cupboard and scooped out enough to keep her hyper, but not get her sick. He laughed deeply with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Consider it payback for him teaching you how to talk your way out of small crimes.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of you amazing, encouraging, and just overall spectacularly wonderful readers! I've loved reading every single comment and getting each kudo! I can't thank you all enough. :)


	50. The Other One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ‘While You Were Sleeping’ AU... I had a bad day, turned on one of my favorite romantic comedies, and this fluffy fic sort of just... happened. Enjoy!

‘Dearly beloved, we’re gathered here in the sight of God to join together this man and this wo-’

‘I object.’

The guests gasped. The minister blinked and glanced around before leaning towards the bride and whispering, ‘I haven’t gotten to that part yet.’

‘I know,’ Molly whispered out of the side of her mouth. She looked up at Mycroft and clenched her fists around her bouquet as she bravely muttered, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t do this.’

‘What’s going on?’ Violet Holmes demanded from the front row. ‘Molly, what’s wrong?’

‘Molly?’ Her Matron of Honor, Mary, touched her arm in question.

Turning to face the fearsome mother of the groom, Molly forced an apologetic, shaky smile. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t do this… I… I’m in love with your son.’

‘I know,’ Violet responded slowly. ‘I thought that was why we are here.’

‘No, not that one.’ Molly took a deep breath and hesitantly pointed at the Best Man. ‘That one.’

‘Oh, dear God.’

‘Really?!’

‘Molly!’

‘ _Finally_.’ Molly glanced up in confusion at Mycroft’s soft utterance amidst the exclamations of the bridal party and guests. Before she could question him, the crowd’s murmuring was pierced by a shrill cry.

‘Sherlock, what the  _Hell_ did you do?!’ Violet screeched, rushing up the few stairs to smack her youngest son across the back of his head.

‘Mummy, please!’ He protested, holding his arms out in protection. ‘I didn’t do anything!’

‘Mother, please refrain from injuring my dear brother,’ Mycroft said as he separated the two and reassured her with a smile. ‘Neither of them did anything untoward. And I’m perfectly fine with this change in events.’

‘How can you be fine with it?!’

‘Because I never loved Molly. Not in a romantic way, at least.’

The audience gasped. Sherlock frowned at him, quickly delving into his Mind Palace and buffering with the new information.

Molly looked at Mycroft in confusion. ‘Then… why?’

Mycroft took her hand and pulled her close to kiss her cheek. ‘You are a wonderful, kind woman, Molly Hooper. But whatever attraction I initially felt for you faded when I saw how you were falling for my brother.’

‘But… but you were still going to go through with this!’ Molly exclaimed in horror.

‘As were you,’ he replied with a raised eyebrow. ‘I would have objected eventually, but I was trusting that you would realize your feelings for Sherlock before it got this far and break things off. And I was correct, though it took quite a bit longer than I estimated. Almost two months longer.’

He smirked. ‘Besides, I believe my true fiancée would be quite put out if I were to marry you.’ He nodded his head toward the audience and Molly turned to look. From the back row, Anthea giggled and wiggled her fingers. The small crowd was watching in unabashed interest; Mummy with her hand over her heart, pleased that the unexpected turn of events was turning out better than expected.  _Two_  potential wives for  _both_ her sons? How wonderful!

‘Oh.’ Molly felt a huge burden lift off her shoulders as Mycroft let go of her hand. ‘So this whole time, you were just…’

‘…trying to get you to realize your feelings for each other, yes. A bit unorthodox, I admit, but successful, nonetheless.’

Sneaking a glance at Sherlock, she swallowed nervously at the blank look on his face. ‘I-erm… I don’t think it’s exactly mutual, Mycroft,’ she whispered resignedly.

‘Don’t assume, Molly,’ Sherlock interjected, coming out of his thoughts. ‘The past four months of watching the two of you has been sickening, but not just because it’s Mycroft and feelings.’

Mycroft’s smirk deepened as he stepped away, allowing Sherlock to take his place. The detective towered over Molly, whose heart was pounding hard and whose eyes were wide in hopeful wonder. He pulled on the hateful bowtie and ran an agitated hand through his curls as he stared down at her, his brow lined in vulnerability. ‘I didn’t see it. I didn’t see how you felt about me. I didn’t see how he didn’t love you like he should. I didn’t  _want_ to. I was afraid… for my heart, that seeing you happy with him would destroy me.’

She melted at his words and the love in his eyes, reaching up to brush a lone curl from his forehead. ‘Well, I’m not with him now, am I?’

He smiled and leaned into her touch as he asked hopefully, ‘Then do you think… maybe you could be happy with me?’

She beamed up at him in silent answer and raised herself up on her toes, closing her eyes in anticipation. Just before her lips touched his, Mycroft’s less-than-dulcet tones broke them apart. ‘As touched as we are by this display, perhaps you would prefer a more private setting to celebrate the onset of your relationship.’

Sherlock glowered at his brother while Molly giggled, her embarrassment over the unconventional, not-wedding fading as her joy overwhelmed her. Slipping her hand into Sherlock’s, she pulled him down the aisle, the folds of her white dress rustling with each hurried step. Though initially surprised by her eagerness, Sherlock quickly caught up and took the lead, tugging her along with equal enthusiasm, his unfettered, joyous laughter ringing out harmoniously with hers.

Behind them, Mycroft made his apologies to the few guests, which consisted mostly of friends and Holmes’, since Molly’s family had all passed on. ‘I do apologize for the inconvenience. However, since you are all here and dressed for a wedding and reception, it would be a shame to disappoint.’

Molly glanced over her shoulder in time to see Mycroft extend his hand to Anthea. The stunning brunette tossed her head back in laughter, rising and walking up the aisle to accept her fiance’s proffered hand.

‘A happy ending for everyone, apparently,’ Sherlock remarked dryly. Feeling lightheaded with giddiness, Molly tightened her grip on his hand and quickened her pace, pulling him into the empty foyer.

The moment the doors closed behind them, Sherlock twirled her around, causing her to stumble and steady herself against his chest, his hands on her waist. She giggled and fiddled with the dangling ends of his undone bowtie.

He smiled tenderly down at her and she sighed happily, reaching up to cup his cheeks. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, staring up at him in complete adoration.

He wrapped his arms around her back and pressed his lips to hers,  _finally_. Her hands slipped around his neck and she stood up on her tiptoes, his body curving over hers until she was dipped back. Once she’d been thoroughly kissed, he pulled back just enough to brush his nose against hers and whisper, ‘I love you back.’


	51. In the Silences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from potterlockianegalitarian928: Sherlock ends comfortable silence at 221B by telling Molly that they should get married.

It wasn’t unusual to find Molly at Baker Street on any given night after her shift, having fallen into a rather odd friendship with the detective, post-exile. Sometimes the flat would be filled with chaos and explosions and Molly giving Sherlock a good dressing down about proper scientific experimentation. Other times, she would no sooner step in the door than Sherlock would sweep by, grabbing her hand and pulling her right back outside for a case.

But occasionally there were days, like today, when it was quiet and peaceful. Half-empty cartons of take-away littered the coffee table and Jeremy Kyle played quietly in the background, the light of the telly flickering in the ever-darkening night. Sherlock, full and lethargic, was laying on the sofa; he claimed to be organizing his Mind Palace, but the occasional snore betrayed him. Her back against the sofa, Molly sat on the floor beside him, editing the third draft of her latest research paper with her notes scattered around her and a red pen in her hand, giggling to herself whenever Sherlock woke himself up with a snort.

The third time it happened, he grunted and shifted to his side, blinking against the light from the telly. He looked away and his gaze fell on Molly with her hair piled high atop her head in a messy bun and her glasses perched on her nose. He smiled sleepily when she nibbled on the pen’s cap in thought.

‘Molly?’

‘Mmm?’ She hummed distractedly, flipping to the next page.

‘Marry me?’

Molly blinked and slowly turned to look at him. He smiled softly, completely and utterly sure of what he was asking.

Biting back a smile, she looked back down at her paper and marked a misspelling. ‘Okay.’

He moved back to his thinking pose and whispered, ‘Good.’


	52. Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: Hello there! How about a Sherlolly fic where Molly has an accident and suffers from amnesia. She doesn't remember what she and Sherlock had built together. Sherlock tries so hard to jog her memory and bring it all back to her.

Molly woke, groggy and confused, to a sterile, white hospital room. The moment her eyes flickered open, a mass of black curls bounced into view; the most heart-stopping eyes, rimmed in red, were staring down at her in wonder.

'Molly,' the man breathed, a smile breaking across his face.

Her brow furrowed and she tried to speak, but her throat was dry and rough from disuse. He disappeared from sight briefly, before pressing a paper cup to her lips. She drank the water greedily, not looking away from him.

When she'd had her fill, she licked her lips and tried again, her voice hoarse and filled with confusion. 'Who are you?'

* * *

She heard what the doctors whispered, she could see the pity in their eyes whenever they skirted her questions. It had been three days since she'd woken from her week-long coma. Three days since she'd seen the mystery man. Three days since he'd bolted the room like the hounds of Hades were nipping at his heels.

She could still see the pain in his eyes, the moment her words shattered him, before he turned on his heel and fled. The look of devastation on his face felt wrong, as though any emotion didn't belong on his face.

She asked countless nurses and doctors who moved in and out of her room, 'Who was that man?'

No one answered her, only smiling down at her sadly.

Her recovery was coming to a close and she was being released the next morning. To where, she didn't know. All she knew was the address written on her identification card.

She worried the edges of the card as she stared down at the photo smiling up at her. The Molly in the picture was happy, her eyes wide and bright, as though there was nothing wrong in the world. That Molly didn't know that a drunk driver would cross her cab's path and derail her existence, leaving her in a pit of the unknown.

The only thing on the card that was familiar to her was her name: Molly Elizabeth Hooper. But even that felt a bit wrong.

Underneath her name, in bold black ink were the words 221B Baker Street. The address had a familiar flow, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't remember it.

* * *

The edges of the horizon were tinged with the rising sunlight when she hesitantly walked up the steps to 221 Baker Street. With shaking hands, she gripped the doorknob, exhaling deeply when the door opened without any resistance.

The small foyer was dark, the wallpaper peeling in places, adding a Victorian charm to the aging building. She swallowed loudly as she stared at the stairs leading up to 221B, the faint strains of violin music wafting down. Her head knew that this was her home, her identification card told her so. But she couldn't get her heart to agree.

Slowly, she ascended the stairs. The somber notes grew louder, pulling at her heart in an achingly familiar way, until tears were pouring down her cheeks. The door to the flat was open and she could see the blurry outline of a tall man, the man from the hospital, standing by the far window, his body curled around his violin as he tore a sorrowful melody from the strings.

She stood, frozen and terrified, in the doorway, unsure of why the sight of this man's sadness shattered her heart.

'Who am I?'

The bow sliced across the strings in awful discord as he whirled around at her soft whisper, the tails of his dressing gown billowing out around him. His eyes, sunken and red-rimmed, were wide as they drank her in. His curls were mussed and frizzed and his face was dark with stubble, making his pale face look sickly.

He cleared his throat and gently set his violin down. 'I should think that was obvious. You are Molly Hooper, pathologist, amnesiac…'

'No,' Molly shook her head firmly and stepped closer. 'Who am I _to you_?'

'You are… Molly.'

She hiccupped a sob. 'I… I don't know what that even means.'

He raked a hand through his unkempt hair and growled softly. 'It means you are completely unique in my mind. Almost everyone else in the world is mindless, forgettable, and utterly unimportant. But you…' He walked toward her until he was within arm's reach. 'You are Molly. My Molly, the woman who taught me that love is a strength, who makes morbid jokes and wears her generous, unconditionally-giving heart on her sleeve. The woman who thawed my own heart… then stole it away from me.'

Taking one more step, Molly bravely reached out and placed her hand in his, watching as his long fingers easily folded around hers. Her mind shouted at her that she didn't even know or  _remember_  this man's name. But her fingers tingled under the brush of his thumb and her heart slowed in contentment, as though her body knew it belonged next to him.

She swallowed thickly and tilted her head back to look up at him. 'Who are you?'

His free hand brushed the trail of tears from her cheek and she leaned into his touch. 'Sherlock Holmes,' he whispered. 'Consulting Detective, arse, coward…' he chastised himself before leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, pulling a pair of rings from his pocket, one a diamond engagement ring, the other a wedding band. 'But first and foremost, I am your husband.'

Molly drew a shaky breath as she hesitantly took the rings from his hand. 'Oh.'

'Please remember me,' he begged quietly, closing his eyes and hesitantly wrapping his arms around her. She let herself be pulled against his chest, fisting her hands in the soft fabric of his gown, the rings digging into her palm. His body curled around her and he buried his face in her neck, his tears mixing with hers.

Her arms drifted up to wrap around his neck and, of its own volition, her hand brushed calmingly through the hairs at the nape of his neck. He froze momentarily at the action, before tightening his hold on her. She buried her nose in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of wood and musk and three days' worth of not bathing. She giggled through her tears; for some reason, the thought of him neglecting himself without her there to pester to be hygienic simultaneously warmed her heart and made her want to smack him upside the head.

Pulling back slightly, she smiled up at him, her memories still hazy and absent in places. But right here, in his arms, she knew she was home. 'Sherlock. My Sherlock.'

Cupping his cheeks, she pulled him down for a tender kiss, showing him that she was there to stay, determined to remember the man she'd married. He breathed a sob of relief against her lips. For several minutes, the silence was punctuated with kisses and murmured words of apology; for forgetting, for running…

It was only when the sun was pouring into the flat that they broke away, still holding each other close. Sherlock guided her to the sofa, pulling her onto his lap in a motion as familiar as breathing.

Molly naturally curled into him, her head against his shoulder as he ran his hand soothingly up and down her back.

'We'll find our way back to each other, Molly,' he whispered. 'We always do.'


	53. I Think I'm In Love With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The delightful Mandy95 sent me this prompt on Tumblr: Hello dear! I see you're once again open for prompts. How about some Sherlolly angst with a fluffy happy ending? I love how good you are at tugging at my heartstrings, haha.

‘Well, that was a spectacular arrest. Shouting it out in the middle of the year-end dance and tackling the suspects. Tell me, did you plan on waiting four months to solve it just to make a scene?’

Sherlock glared at the laughing DI over the roof of the car. ‘I had my suspicions, but I needed enough evidence to ensure that their guilt would be undeniable.’

‘A fraternity hazing gone wrong,’ Lestrade shook his head. ‘I didn’t see it coming.’

‘Of course you didn’t, that’s why I was called in.’ Sherlock flipped his collar up and smirked. ‘Best be off, those two have a life in prison to look forward to. Why delay it any longer?’

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head. ‘I still don’t know why you waited four months. We could have had this solved and put away. Did you enjoy playing frat boy that much?’

Sherlock sniffed and glanced away, not deigning to reply.

‘Oooooh.’ Lestrade’s smile grew cheeky and he waggled his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t being a frat boy you enjoyed. Is it possible that you finally discovered the difference between boys and girls?’

‘I beg your pardon!’ Sherlock asked in disgust at the implication.

‘Oh, come on, Sherlock! Tell me the truth, one of those girls has got your trousers in a twist! The dean’s assistant was a looker. Irene, right? Did she finally manage to seduce the unseducable Sherlock Holmes? Or was it the graduate assistant? The pretty one with brown hair? Mary… or was it Maggie?’

‘Molly,’ Sherlock corrected automatically, grimacing when he realized he’d given it away.

Lestrade banged his hand on the car roof in triumph. ‘I knew it!’

‘You know nothing.’ Sherlock casually shoved his hands in his pockets and quirked an eyebrow. ‘Molly was simply a means to an end. I needed access to the lab to run tests on evidence and alleviate my boredom. She required flattery as payment. That is the extent of our relationship, if it can even qualify as such.’

In his defensive disdain, Sherlock failed to notice as Lestrade’s face suddenly blanched and the almost frantic way the older man’s eyes widened, beseeching him to stop.

‘Oh.’

Sherlock froze at the quiet exhale. Lestrade was shaking his head as he slid into the car, mumbling a ‘well done, you idiot.’

As the car pulled away, Sherlock turned around and felt his heart fall somewhere into the vicinity of his stomach. Molly.

Her hair was falling out of its elegant updo and her gown that he had, not an hour before, been running his hands along as they danced around the floor, was covered in beer stains from when he’d pushed her out of the way of the panicked suspects. Still, to him, she was beautiful. But the moment he looked in her eyes, he broke. The brown eyes he’d grown to love were filled with tears and pain and betrayal.

‘Molly, I can explain…’ he began, his deep baritone cracking.

She held up a hand and shook her head, the lips he’d so recently  _almost_  kissed, were thinned as she bravely held it together. ‘I heard enough,  _William_.’

Hearing her bitterly spit out the false name, Sherlock reached out, his fingertips grazing her bare arm. ‘Molly, please. It… I didn’t mean it…’

‘No one ever does, Mr Holmes,’ she sighed in resignation, moving out of his reach and turning to leave. ‘But what kind of fool would I be if fell for your lies twice?’

* * *

Two Weeks Later

‘For God’s sake, sit down and tell me what’s wrong!’

Sherlock ignored John’s first demand as he continued pacing around the flat. ‘She’s accepted a position in Edinburgh. Edinburgh, John! I know for a fact St. Bart’s offered her a better position, better pay, more authority, right here in London, where she belongs! Why would she  _possibly_  turn that down for Edinburgh?’

‘Molly,’ John groaned and placed his head in his hands when he realized what had the detective in a panicked strop. ‘She’s running, Sherlock.’

The detective froze and turned a questioning gaze to his friend. ‘Running? From what?’

‘From you, you great, big prat! She’s running away from  _you_!’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Sherlock scoffed. ‘Molly graduated first in her class, two years early, with honours. She is intelligent, unlike you-’

‘Oi!’

‘-and she would never make such a life-altering decision because of a  _man_.’

John shook his head exasperatedly. ‘Women…  _people_ , in general, don’t think like you, Sherlock. If you hurt her enough, and  _you did_ , she might very well run to another country to nurse her broken heart.’

‘But I tried to explain…’

‘It doesn’t matter. You lied to her about who you were, then you admitted to using her and that all the compliments you showered over her were lies. Congratulations, Sherlock. You’ve become just like any other man, flattering a woman to get into her knickers. Or, in Molly’s case, her laboratory.’

Silence settled between them as John’s words hit Sherlock hard. Had he really used such a primitive male technique on Molly? Sweet, generous, loving, brilliant Molly? Molly, who smiled at his deductions and blushed at his praise, who knew when he needed silence and when he needed distraction, whose lips looked just perfect for kissing and whose hands deftly stole his heart away.

‘I love her,’ he breathed.

John quirked an eyebrow. ‘Yep.’

‘And I broke her heart,’ Sherlock murmured in horrified realization.

‘Yes, you did.’

Sherlock turned pleading eyes to his best friend. ‘What do I do?’

* * *

  
The last box was packed and the movers were coming in the morning. Molly looked around the small flat that had been her home all through Uni. That chapter of her life was over and the next was beginning. Instead of feeling excited and free, she felt oppressed. She didn’t want to leave London; turning down St. Bart’s had been one of the hardest decisions of her life. But she knew that  _he_  would be there. And she couldn’t face him, not after everything. She needed a new start.   


Her cell beeped and she pulled it out to read the message.

_HAVE YOU READ IT YET? OMG!_

Molly read the text from her, now-former, flatmate Meena twice before responding in confusion.

_Read what?_

Within seconds, Meena had sent her a link, along with another chorus of ‘OMGs!’

Pulling up the page, Molly glanced at the unfamiliar blog with passive curiosity. But when her eyes fell on the most recent blog post, her heart stuttered to a halt.

**The Personal Blog of Dr John H Watson**

_A note from Sherlock Holmes_

> I have mocked John for his use of a personal blog, yet here I am using it for what is possibly the most personal entreaty I’ve ever given, privately or publicly.
> 
> My most recent case was a four-month investigation into the death of a Uni student. For those interested solely in the details of that investigation, I assure you John will soon have that post out as soon as he’s finished making a mockery of my current situation.
> 
> For those who care (of which I’m sure there are few), in the course of said investigation, I hurt someone I care about.
> 
> To this woman, you know who you are.
> 
> I lied to you and I manipulated you.
> 
> And I am sorry.
> 
> They may be mere words, but rest assured, they are deeply felt.
> 
> Sentiment and emotion are two things I locked away and refused to indulge in, believing them to be detrimental to my mind and my career.
> 
> I was wrong.
> 
> You proved me wrong.
> 
> And one more thing…. I think I’m in love with you.
> 
> I’m ready to close the chapter on my lonely past and begin a new one, with you at my side.
> 
> If my apology is accepted, I ask that you meet me tonight, five minutes before the 7:00 press conference in front of 221 Baker Street.
> 
> Please.

* * *

The crowd outside Baker Street was growing. Sherlock peered out from behind the curtain, his brow furrowed. ‘There’s more than usual.’

Behind him, John snorted and stood, carrying his laptop over. ‘Well, considering the amount of traffic on the blog after your love letter, I should think so.’

‘What traffic?’ Sherlock grabbed the computer. He gaped at the counter on the side, which had risen nearly 2000 counts and was ticking away steadily. The comment section was abuzz with guests wishing him luck, offering themselves if he was rejected, and… oh, he’d have to have John delete that one. He swallowed and glanced up at John. ‘So, they’re not here for the press conference?’

‘Afraid not, mate,’ John chuckled and took the laptop back. ‘You opened up the door to your personal life and now  _everyone_ wants a front row seat. I told you to send a letter or an email, instead.’

Sherlock shook his head, panic setting in. ‘She might not have gotten a letter in time. Or read her email. She might not have even read the post!’

John glanced at the clock. 6:54. ‘Well, let’s hope she did.’

With one minute to the countdown, Sherlock marched down the stairs. He had to hope that Molly had read it, that she forgave him… he didn’t know what he’d do if she didn’t.

As soon as he stepped out onto the stoop, dozens of photographers and reporters rushed him, shouting questions and flashing lights in his eyes. Behind him, John closed the door and pushed aside a reporter who got a bit too chummy with the detective. Sherlock ignored all the lights and sounds, his eyes darting from person to person, looking for the one who mattered.

But he didn’t spot the sparkling brown eyes or the familiar ponytail.

He glanced at his watch.

6:56.

When the reporters realized he wouldn’t be answering questions, at least until the mystery girl arrived, they fell silent and stood watch.

6:57

Several murmurs rose up, speculating as to who the girl was. But as the minutes slowly ticked by, they began to lose hope at ever finding out.

6:59.

Sherlock swallowed thickly as the second hand began its final trek around the face of the watch. She wasn’t coming. His heart caved into his chest as the minute hand flicked over one last time, the harsh motion oddly final.

7:00.

The crowd watched, respectfully and surprisingly silent, as the detective allowed himself a moment to accept the rejection of his apology. And his love.

Suddenly, from the edges of the crowd, an excited clamoring began spreading. John tugged rapidly on Sherlock’s sleeve until he finally looked up.

Following the crowd’s direction of attention, Sherlock saw a figure in the distance running down the sidewalk towards Baker Street. Hope sprang in his chest at the familiar ponytail swaying back and forth and he stepped down, pushing his way through the crown but never breaking his eyes away from the girl running toward him. Molly was close enough now for him to see the pyjamas under her coat and the mismatched shoes on her feet, but all he cared about was the bright, laughing smile on her face that breathed life back into his heart. Breaking free of the crowd, he burst out in a run, easily closing the distance between them.

Just before they collided, he braced himself and caught her around the waist, burying his face in her neck and lifting her off her feet. Her laugh of delight rang out down the street as he swung her around, her arms wrapped around his neck.

When he finally set her down, she smiled up at him softly. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’

Sherlock cupped the back of her head and leaned down, telling her without words that she was forgiven.

The couple was suddenly surrounded by the excited shouts of the reporters and the rapid clicking of cameras. But neither particularly cared, too caught up in their first kiss.


	54. Worthwhile Pursuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> otheenglishsetters asked: Hi! So I saw your work on Fanfiction and I love it! May I have permission to suggest an idea for The Pathologist and the Consulting Detective? Sherlock shows Molly that he knows a thing or two about bowling? Thanks! Just keep writing, for when I get updates, it always makes my day!
> 
> So I made this into a Uni fic, with a hint of Holmes’ brother bonding time. :)

Sherlock slouched deeper into the uncomfortable and hideous, bright neon orange seat. ‘Why are we here? This is a pointless pursuit. We never do this sort of thing.’

‘We are here because you broke the wires in our Operation game,’ Mycroft replied with a sigh and exaggerated roll of his eyes. ‘And Rule IV, Amendment 8 clearly states ‘the loser of the previous match shall determine an alternate game should any unfortunate incident befall the intended game or should one brother specifically sabotage said game in order to prevent the weekly match from occurring.’’

‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ Sherlock pouted. His frown deepened when a much-too-pleased-with-himself Mycroft shoved a heavy bowling ball in his hands. ‘I was trying to fix the darn thing, it always buzzed whenever I tried to get the heart.’

Mycroft smirked. ‘Have you considered the possibility that it is not the game, but that you simply are not up to the task?’

Mumbling a curse under his breath, Sherlock stood and shuffled toward the lane. The lights were obnoxious and the smell of beer permeated the room, it was all he could do not to gag.

‘Oh, do stop wasting time, brother mine. It is a simple task for someone of your mental capacities,’ Mycroft commented behind him.

Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock ignored him and focused on the ideal approach. The ball was just heavy enough for a deep curve, an easy strike. Quickly doing the math, he pulled the ball back and swiftly and surely swung it forward.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of yellow. The brief distraction was all that was needed to break his concentration just enough to send his ball straight into the gutter. He growled in frustration, glancing over in annoyance at the cause of his distraction, and did a double take.

Sporting a bright yellow shirt and black shorts, the girl one lane over was… for lack of better word, adorable. Her brown hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and her form, as she swept her arm back and sent her ball down the lane with a thud, was strong and confident. He glanced down at her fingers, now free from her bowling ball, and noted the small scars that lined them, which seemed to dance in the flashing lights. Medical student, surgical… no, pathology. Her eyes were wide and she waited in anticipation as her ball rolled down the lane, biting her lip.

Sherlock swallowed loudly, not realizing his mouth had dropped open.

There was a crack as her ball hit the pins, followed by echoing cracks as the pins cascaded. The girl jumped in triumph, her laugh breaking over the inane chatter around them. She turned around and caught his gaze, a deep blush suffusing her cheeks under his perusal. She glanced down at his remaining pins (all ten of them) and bit her lip to keep from smiling.

To his surprise, she walked over, leaving her cheering, half-drunk friends behind. She brushed a stray hair behind her ear and smiled up at him sweetly, the scent of lemons caressing his senses. ‘Need some help?’

Finally unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Sherlock eloquently answered, ‘Erm… I-I know how to… do this, I just… got distracted.’

The girl giggled and shrugged. ‘Okay.’

She began to walk away and before he knew it, he called out after her, ‘But I could use some… tips?’

‘Oh, dear lord, he’s finally found the difference between girls and boys,’ Mycroft mumbled to himself. Standing up, he brushed past to couple and sighed heavily, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m finding myself in need of some air.’

Sherlock barely acknowledged his brother’s departure, too intent on the girl’s dimples when she bit back a smile. He held out his hand. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Molly Hooper.’

Sherlock tried not to hold on to her small, soft hand too long, but by the blush now creeping down her neck, he may have failed.

She pulled back and cleared her throat, shooting him a bright smile and a wink. ‘So, bowl here often?’

‘I do not  _bowl_  ever.’ He wrinkled his nose and glanced down at the ball that shot out of the return. ‘It is simple math and physics, though. If simpletons can do it, I certainly can.’

Molly raised her eyebrows and, if possible, her smile widened. ‘Okay, Mister Genius. Show me what you got.’

Intent on using this perfect opportunity to not only display his body (he saw the not-so-faint glimmer of appreciation in her eyes) but his skill, Sherlock lifted his chin and picked up the ball.

He once again determined the ideal path of the ball and proceeded to swing his arm back, letting the ball go careening down the lane.

To his embarrassment, it curved too soon and rolled right into the gutter, not half-way to the end.

Behind him, he heard Molly’s suppressed giggles.

‘Something funny?’ He asked as he turned around, glaring at her mockingly. She forced an innocent look on her face and shook her head.

‘You think you can do better?’ He challenged her with a raised eyebrow.

She returned the gesture in kind and waved him off the lane, grabbing her ball from the rack and gracefully stepping up to the line. He would be lying if he said he didn’t admire the view from the back, too.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Molly swept her arm back and sent her ball rushing down the lane to a strike.

Her grin of smug triumph was emphasized by the clatter of pins being knocked to the ground when she turned around. Sherlock huffed in frustration.

‘Now, about those tips you asked for…’ She smirked.

Resentfully, he picked up his ball and joined her at the lane. ‘ _Show me what you got_ ,’ he teased her.

‘Okay, first of all, you’re overthinking it.’ She waved her hand at the pins. ‘You don’t have to make it look amazing, you have to feel it… Think about the motion of your body, not the trajectory of the ball.’

 _I’d love to think about the motion of your body_ , the thought came unbidden to his mind and he prayed to every god in the cosmos that the blacklight of the alley hid the hot flush on his cheeks.

‘Sherlock?’ She snapped her fingers, bringing his attention back to her. She smiled shyly, though her eyes twinkled as though she knew the thoughts tumbling around his mind.

He gulped and nodded. ‘Right, think about your body.’ Her eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. ‘Sorry, no, I mean, the body…  _my_ body! And the ball, not the… the trajectory.’

Molly bit her lip,  _fetchingly_  his traitorous mind offered, but mercifully ignored his slip. ‘So, try forgetting the math and physics of it and just rolling the ball how you  _feel_  would make the most of its weight and momentum. Even if it’s straight on.’

‘I don’t think-’ He began, but stumbled to a halt when Molly stepped behind him and placed her hands on his arms. He could feel every point where her front brushed against his back and every thought about bowling was swept out of his mind. ‘I-erm… I…’

She gently nudged his arms until he faced the lane, her hands squeezing his biceps. Though shorter than him by more than a head, she raised herself up and spoke into his ear, her breath raising the hairs on his neck. ‘Don’t think about it, just feel the motion.’

He nodded dumbly, feeling bereft when she stepped back. But he was determined to show that he was more than adept at the mundane task of bowling and a pretty girl with brown eyes wouldn’t distract him from proving it. Even if it meant ‘feeling’ instead of ‘thinking,’ something the logical part of his mind rejected.

Taking a deep breath, he focused on the weight of the ball in his hand and swept his arm back, letting the feeling of the momentum in the swing drive where and when he released the ball. The ball thudded to the waxed floor and shot down the lane, hitting the pins with a thunderous reverberation as they exploded from the force.

Strike.

‘Yes!’ Beaming, he turned around at Molly’s shout of triumph only to find her rushing toward him. He opened his arms just in time to catch her as she lunged at him. More words of victory were on her lips, but Sherlock took his chance and crushed his lips to hers. She squeaked in surprise, before capitulating with a moan. Her hands wandered into his hair and his clutched her small frame to his body, sifting through the thick strands of her ponytail. She tasted of peppermint and the slight bitter tang of beer, her lips thin but more than adequate as he slid his tongue along the seam.

Before the kiss could deepen further, the catcalls and cheers from her friends broke them apart, panting and flushed.

Sherlock smirked smugly at the dazed expression on her face, her lips reddened and plump and her heart thudding against her throat.

‘So,’ he lowered his voice an octave and relished the way her pupils dilated even more in response. ‘May I suggest we abandon this pursuit and grab a cup of coffee somewhere?’

Molly swallowed and nodded dumbly. ‘C-coffee would be nice.’

He smirked widely at her breathless stammer, pleased that she was the one out of sorts now. Yes, Molly Hooper was already proving to be a much more worthwhile pursuit.


	55. Parental Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ameerawrites asked: I love your Sherlolly fics :) If you're still taking prompts, could you write one with Sherlock and Molly having to parent a teenage?

‘Mum!’

Molly groaned aloud at the pounding feet racing up the steps of 221b. She peered around the kitchen door to see her daughter storm into the lounge, her black curls in frizzy disarray and her hands clenched at her sides in anger.

‘You called?’ Molly quipped.

Georgina whirled about, her expression as furious as her father’s when he was in a strop. ‘Dad won’t let me go with Claire to the concert at Wembley this weekend! And he  _promised_ if I didn’t get in trouble at school for a whole week, I could! And I didn’t, and now he’s taking it back and won’t let me go, because no daughter of hiswill be seen at some ‘gyrating, juvenile mash of sounds that barely passes as music,’ she rushed on, doing a frankly marvelous impression of Sherlock in one of his moods. ‘So, not only is he backing out of our deal, I spent a  _whole week_ keeping my deductions to myself, and do you know how hard that is when my PE teacher is now sleeping with the principal, even though he’s married to the Literature teacher and she’s married to some high-up MP?! My god, if I did that for  _nothing_ , I swear I will run away to Nana’s and this time, none of Uncle Mycroft’s minions will be able to drag me back!’

Red-faced and fuming, Georgina finished her story, breathing hard. Used to the speed at which her daughter ranted, Molly placed her hands on her hips and smirked. ‘Want me to ground him?’

‘That would work if I were a sixteen-year-old,’ Sherlock interrupted as he marched into the room and whipped off his scarf. ‘Which  _you_  are _,_  young lady. And I will not hesitate to ground you, if you insist on being obstinate.’

‘ _I’m_ being obstinate?’ Georgina screeched. ‘That’s rich, coming from you!’

‘Enough!’ Molly stepped up between them. She loved the similarities between them, but in times like this, she wished Georgina was a bit less of a mini-Sherlock. Molly turned to him and stared him down firmly. ‘Sherlock, if you promised Georgina she could go to the concert conditionally,  _and she met those conditions_ , then you need to hold up your end of the bargain.’

Sherlock nearly growled, but nodded under the glare of his wife. ‘Fine,’ he spat. ‘But I shall be going, as well.’

‘What?’ Georgina shouted. ‘No, no  _way_! I will not be the loser who brings her  _dad_ to the concert!’

‘Georgina.’ Molly said warningly. Her daughter huffed and crossed her arms, a pout on her Cupid’s bow lips. ‘Give your father and me a moment alone.’

The teenager threw one last glare at her father before stomping out of the room. Once her bedroom door slammed above them, Molly smiled up at her husband and sighed fondly. ‘Oh, Sherlock.’

‘What?’ He snapped, crossing his arms in defiance.

Stepping up to him and sliding her hands up his arms, Molly pulled him down into a gentle, reassuring kiss. ‘She’s got to grow up someday.’

‘I know that.’

Her fingers played with the silver-laced curls at the nape of his neck as she narrowed her eyes knowingly.

He sighed and relaxed into her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. It was a defense mechanism, something she discovered early into their marriage. Whenever he felt particularly vulnerable or reassurance, he held onto her to hide his face.

‘But does it have to be today?’

Molly laughed softly at his petulant mumble. ‘You did promise her.’

He sighed. ‘I honestly did not believe she would be able to hold that in for a week. She must have some of your patience in her… somewhere.’

‘Well, I hope you’ve learned a couple lessons. First of all, never make a bet on something you don’t want to follow through on. And secondly,’ her voice dropped and she pulled away with a stern look on her face. ‘Never underestimate our daughter.’

‘She  _is_  the best of both of us.’ He grinned proudly. His smile dropped as he looked down at Molly. ‘I suppose I need to apologize to her for being…’

‘Obstinate?’ Molly supplied with a smirk. He frowned at her which only made her smile widen. With a gleam in her eye, she kissed the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, she had to get it from somewhere. And we’ll need to speak with her about her attitude and disrespect.’

Sherlock groaned and dropped his head onto her shoulder. ‘I cannot imagine how my parents raised both myself and Mycroft, who is, as you know, ten times worse than me,’ Molly rolled her eyes, ‘into somewhat functioning members of society without ripping their hair out or going positively insane.’

Laughing, Molly gripped his hair and pulled his head back so she could see the teasing gleam in his eyes. ‘I think you turned out wonderfully.’ She kissed him firmly then pushed him toward the stairs with a smile. ‘Now go. She may very well make good on that threat to run away to your mother’s!’


	56. Damsel in Distress

It had been a 4.

There wasn’t supposed to be a smuggling operation or a kidnapping. What started as a search for a runaway teenager had snowballed into Sherlock and John climbing down from the roof of the three-story building trying to escape the hail of gunfire. With Lestrade three minutes out and Sherlock’s precarious position on the scaffolding, a terrible sense of foreboding suddenly hit the detective. Ahead of him, John quickly slid through the open window into the second floor.

Bullets pinged around him, the already rickety scaffolding banging dangerously against the building, the metal sides crying out in protest at the abuse.

Sherlock reached the window and just as he made to slide inside, a horrible wrenching metal sound broke over the gunfire and shouts.

The last thing Sherlock heard was John’s desperate shout before the world collapsed around him.

‘Sherlock!’

* * *

Groaning, Sherlock woke up and blinked his eyes open, focusing on the hazy blue sky above him. A dull ache throbbed through his head and his body felt as if he’d been tossed off a building.

_Oh_ ,  _that’s right. I was._  He remembered the brief feeling of weightlessness as the scaffolding collapsed beneath him.

Sitting up, he rubbed a hand over the bump on his head and looked around the unfamiliar place. Aged trees rose up all around him and he sat on a lush carpet of grass.

‘Where am I?’ He asked aloud, not recognizing the geographical combination of flora.

‘Where do you think?’

Sherlock jumped up in surprise at the oddly-familiar voice, forgetting all about the pain in his head, and whirled around.

His mouth dropped open. Where once had only been a forest of trees, stood a magnificent stone palace, a large tower rising from the center and smaller, symmetrical towers on the four corners.  

He walked hesitantly closer, taking in the oddly familiar structure. The large, mahogany doors marking the entrance were locked, as he found out when he tried to open them.

_Why is this place so familiar?_

He stepped back and blinked repeatedly, sure that he’d sustained a head injury and was currently hallucinating.

‘You’re really not.’

Sherlock flinched and tilted his head back, following the direction of the voice, until he saw a figure leaning out of the tower’s window.

‘Molly Hooper!’ He cried out. ‘What are you doing up there?’

Dressed in a white lab coat, the pathologist smiled down at him and waved. ‘You put me here.’

He furrowed his brow in offense. ‘I most certainly did not!’

‘Nope. I distinctly remember you dragging me here.’ She giggled, though it seemed rather forced.

Sherlock tried to remember the symptoms of a concussion. But for some reason, he was unable to find the information, nothing was coming to mind.

Mind.

He glanced at the stone building.

Palace.

_Mind Palace._

‘Ah, damn it,’ he muttered.

‘Figured it out, have ya?’ Molly teased him.

‘Unlock the door, Molly,’ he commanded. ‘It’s my Mind Palace, you have no right to lock me out!’

She pursed her lips and cocked an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t lock you out.’

‘Then  _who_ did?’ He snapped, making a show of rattling the front doors. The chains on the inside clanked noisily, but did not budge. Molly watched him dispassionately. ‘Molly Hooper, you let me in this instant!’

‘I can’t,’ she sighed forlornly.

His nose wrinkled in frustration as he bit out, ‘Why. Not?’

She rolled her eyes and placed her chin in her hand. ‘You  _locked_ me up here in this tower. Like some damsel in a fairy-tale. You even double-locked the door and shoved a chair under the handle. I can’t leave.’

‘Why would I do that?’ He asked in utter bemusement.

Molly shrugged and looked up at the sky. ‘I got too close to the vaults. You were afraid I’d break into it, so you locked me up here, as far away from them as possible.’

‘The vaults?’

She glanced down at him, her ponytail swinging over her shoulder. ‘Sherlock, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what you’ve stashed away in there?’

He gestured mockingly around him. ‘Does it look like I remember  _anything_ I’ve put in there?’

‘Clearly you’ve retained some memories and knowledge. How else would you remember who I am?’

‘I don’t know!’ He shouted and beat on the door with his fist. ‘If I knew  _how_ I knew that, I wouldn’t be in this predicament, would I?!’

Molly ignored his tirade and waited for him to finish before calmly answering. ‘The vaults are where you keep those things you don’t want to feel. Anger, fear, hatred…. Some can’t be contained easily, like anger, and escape. Anger is bound to so many other feelings, it’s nearly impossible to lock it away. For instance, your anger is closely tied with protecting your friends… and boredom.’

She smirked down at him. ‘Which explains why you go shooting walls when you’re bored.’

‘I don’t need your commentary, Molly,’ Sherlock snapped and shook his head, cringing when his head throbbed. ‘Forget the vaults, why am I locked out of my  _own damn Mind Palace_?’

He punctuate each word by banging his fist on the door.

‘Ah, there’s that anger.’

‘Molly Elizabeth Hooper, you open these doors!’ Sherlock bellowed.

‘You’ve got to open them on your own.’ Molly placed her head in her hand and stared up at the sky. ‘I can’t help you. And shouting at me will only make your headache worse.’

Whirling about, Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration. ‘Urgh,  _why_  am I locked out? It can’t be by my own choice, I am in control of my mind and would never have locked myself out. Clearly it is related to the blow I sustained to my head. But why am I outside of it; why did the failsafe not kick in and lock me  _inside_?’

Above him, Molly sighed wistfully.

‘And you…’ He turned around and looked up at her. ‘No one is a permanent manifestation in my mind. Why are you?’

Molly smiled knowingly but didn’t answer.

‘You said you were getting too close to the vaults. Which holds the Pandora’s Box of my emotions, I assume: anger, fear, hatred… but not love? Why didn’t you say ‘love’?’ Sherlock began pacing in thought, trying to remember what he’d locked away. ‘Perhaps my head injury threatened the safety of my Mind Palace and, as a security measure, I was tossed out… But that doesn’t explain you. You’re not an anomaly, I never would have allowed that in my Mind Palace. You clearly are a manifestation of Molly Hooper.. _._ but  _why?_  What’s so important about you that my Mind created a full manifestation of you?’

He stopped pacing and looked up at Molly, who was staring back at him with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in realization. ‘You’re the embodiment of love.’

Her face relaxed into a gentle, fond smile. ‘And to think, it only took a fall from scaffolding, a concussion, and you locking yourself out of your own Mind Palace to come to that conclusion.’

‘I… I love you?’

‘No need to sound so disbelieving, Sherlock,’ Molly said dryly.

‘That’s why I locked you up there?’

She laughed. ‘Well, you may not have known what I represented at the time, but were you really going to put your favourite pathologist in a padded room with Moriarty?’

‘Ah.’ He nodded in agreement, then gestured grandly at the palace. ‘So, now that I have solved the mystery of the imprisoned pathologist,  _which I will be following up on once I wake up_ , what am I supposed to do about the being locked out of my Mind Palace?’

‘Well, you could always climb up here and figure out how to break down my door,’ Molly suggested with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Sherlock stared at the smooth surface leading up to the window nearly thirty feet above him. ‘I am capable of many things, but climbing a flat surface two levels is too much, especially for my logical mind.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a Mister Impossible.’ Molly’s shout was muffled as she rummaged about inside her room. She appeared once more with a cheeky smile and tossed down one end of a sturdy rope.

He stared at the dangling end and then narrowed his eyes up at her. ‘You had this the whole time?’

‘Uh-huh,’ she announced cheerily. ‘It’s tied to the doorknob. Now, come on up!’

Wrapping the rope around one arm, Sherlock braced himself and began the slow climb up the side of his Mind Palace. ‘You know,’ he grunted, ‘this would have gone a lot faster had you told me what you were to begin with.’

Molly rested her arms on the window ledge and placed her chin atop them. ‘What kind of mystery would that have been for the great Consulting Detective?’

Finally reaching the window, Sherlock grabbed the ledge and hefted himself up. Molly stepped back to allow him to haul himself into the room. He pulled his legs up and jumped down into the small, but tastefully decorated room, quickly glancing around. The walls were painted a bright yellow with white skulls mismatched all around. His leather chair from Baker Street sat in the corner, a book on the arm with Molly’s glasses perched atop. He frowned in confusion at the chair for a moment, before turning his attention to the petite pathologist, a smug smile on her face.

‘Molly Hooper,’ he growled as he sauntered over to her. ‘You have been entirely too mischievous.’

‘Is that so?’

He wrapped an arm around her and smirked when she squeaked as he hauled her up against his chest.

‘Oh! Well, I didn’t think you’d be this happy about the realization that you love me!’ She slipped her arms around his neck and bit back a smile. ‘You do know I’m not the  _real_ Molly, right?’

‘Mmm, yep. But until I wake up, I intend to enjoy this revelation.’ He brushed his lips against her temple.

‘What about the door?’ She asked breathlessly.

‘If I’m not mistaken, it’s already unlocked.’

Molly pulled back slightly and looked at him in confusion. He smiled smugly down at her and jerked his head toward the door. She glanced over and her mouth dropped open to see the door standing wide open.

Turning back, she slapped his shoulder. ‘You were able to do that this whole time?!’

‘Now that I’m in my Mind Palace and back in control, yes.  _Obviously_ ,’ he quipped, pulling her closer and leaning down with a smolder.

Just as he was about to press his lips to hers, the throbbing pain in his head suddenly increased. He groaned and pressed his eyes closed, somewhat regretfully letting the pain pull him out of his Mind Palace.

* * *

His eyes snapped open and he gasped in a deep breath, staring at the ceiling of what apparently was a small hospital room.

‘Sherlock?’

Above him appeared the faces of John and Mary Watson. Mary smiled down at him fondly when she saw he was okay. ‘It seems you have a predilection for hospitals and dramatics.’

‘How long-?’ He began, his voice rough, but John interrupted.

‘Just a day. You’ve got a pretty nasty bump on your head and a couple broken ribs from the fall.’

‘And Molly?’

The Watsons shared a confused look.

‘Where’s Molly?’ He asked, trying to sit up. ‘She let me in, I need to thank her; and I should tell her, though she already knew it before me…’

‘Mary, get the doctor, something’s wrong.’ John commanded, going into physician mode at Sherlock’s apparent delirium and pushing the detective back into the pillows.

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Sherlock said, halting Mary in her tracks. ‘I just need to see Molly. Now, preferably.’

‘What’s going on?’

All three turned to see Molly standing in the door, still dressed in her work clothes, her lab coat tossed over her arm. Her eyes were wide and she blushed at being the center of their surprised attention. When no one answered, she flushed deeper and made to turn. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll just… go…’ She awkwardly jerked her thumb in the other direction and turned to leave.

‘No, wait!’ Sherlock struggled to sit up, prompting the Watsons to usher Molly in to keep him settled.

Molly hesitantly approached his side, ignoring the confused look on John’s face and Mary’s knowing smile as they slid past her into the hall.

‘Molly Hooper,’ Sherlock sighed contentedly and reached an arm out to her in invitation. She swallowed nervously, but placed her hand in his and let him pull her closer.

He smiled up at her and rubbed his thumb softly over her knuckles. ‘You’re always saving me.’

‘I… am?’ She laughed uneasily.

‘Yes.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘You are.’

Molly ducked her head, a pleased, timid smile on her face.

‘Molly, would you… like to grab dinner?’ He asked hopefully.

Molly froze and blinked rapidly. Her already rosy cheeks burned deeper, the blush traveling to her ears and down her neck as she raised her head. ‘Dinner as in…?’

‘A date, yes.’ He tried to convey as much sincerity as possible, knowing she had every reason to not believe his true intentions. But Molly always saw him, the real him, and he needn’t have worried. Not to mention, the heart rate monitor attached to him was as good as a lie detector test, beeping in time with his racing heart.

‘Oh. Erm…’ She bit her lip, trying to keep a joyful smile from her face and failing. He felt his aching chest puff out in pride at her bashful response to his request. ‘Okay.’

‘How about tonight?’

Her smile faded slightly. ‘Are you sure you’ll be up to it?’ She glanced down at the bandages wrapped around his torso.

‘Why wait? I’m sure I’ll be released sometime today. And if I need assistance, well,’ he smirked up at her. ‘I’ve got my  _Pathologist in a White Lab Coat_  to come to my rescue.’

Shaking her head at him, Molly gave in with a giggle. ‘Always the damsel in distress, aren’t you?’

‘Only for you.’


	57. How Dare You!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne of Green Gables AU.... because I just couldn't help myself.

Her back rigidly straight, Margaret Hooper ( _Molly_ , thank you very much) stared firmly ahead, ignoring the rambunctiousness happening around her. It was her first day in class after arriving on Prince Edward Island and she was going to make a good impression on Mrs Hudson. Her dress, though obviously second-hand and less than fashionable, was ironed crisply and accented by her own, somewhat successful attempt at embroidery. That morning, she’d brushed her plain, brown hair until it shone, then plaited it in two braids that hung over her shoulders.

Yes, Molly did believe she looked her best.

The day began to fly by and Molly proved herself far brighter than most her age in History and English. It wasn’t until they took out their boards for their Arithmetic lesson that things started to go wrong.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the boy sitting in the desk beside her slouch down. The curly-haired boy had been huffing in boredom all day, his attention drifting during each lesson. Molly glanced at him and flushed when she caught his disdainful gaze already on her. Not to be off-put, she lifted her chin in the air and sniffed, turning her attention back to the front.

Several minutes passed as she scribbled the equations on her small chalkboard when she suddenly saw him lean over the space between their desks.

‘X equals 32,’ his somewhat scratchy, yet deep voice rumbled quietly.

Molly frowned at him, finishing up the problem on her own and casting a furious glare on his smug expression. ‘I did not ask for assistance,’ she hissed.

From the front, Mrs Hudson loudly cleared her throat. Molly flushed and turned back to her work.

The boy’s eyebrows shot up and she thought she caught the beginnings of a smile on his face from the corner of her eye. He leaned back in his chair and casually twirled his chalk between his fingers.

She hadn’t finished two more problems before a piece of chalk hit her in the shoulder. She looked over at him, incredulous. He smirked. ‘The name’s William. But I go by Sherlock.’

Molly huffed and turned back, ignoring him. To her frustration, her annoyance only seemed to egg him on further.

‘C’mon,’ Sherlock smirked and tossed a crumpled piece of paper at her head. ‘Don’t I get to know  _your_  name?’

Pushing back her aggravation, Molly, as haughtily as she could, flicked her braid off her shoulder and lifted her nose proudly.

That did bring a smile to his face. He opened his mouth to speak again, but another loud cough from Mrs Hudson silenced him. Temporarily.

The lesson was coming to an end when Sherlock finally crossed the line. Absorbed in the final problem, Molly didn’t see him move until suddenly he leaned over and whispered loudly, ‘Hey, Mouse!  _Mouse!_ ’

He reached out and tugged firmly on her braid, thereby finally igniting her wrath.

Furious, Molly jumped to her feet. 

‘How dare you!’ She screeched and did the only thing she could think of; she grabbed his chalkboard and broke it over his pompous head.

As the pieces scattered around his dumbfounded face, shock overcame her rage.

‘Oh,’ she uttered as she raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Sherlock was staring up at her in a mixture of shock and awe, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. She swallowed thickly as everyone stared at them and Mrs Hudson marched toward her, ready to dole out her punishment.

This wasn’t the impression she had intended to make.


	58. How Dare He!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn’t help myself. :) A continuation of the Anne of Green Gables AU...

It wasn’t until she had written ‘Margaret Hooper has a very bad temper’ one hundred times that Molly was permitted to leave. Mrs Hudson watched over her charge with a discerning eye, knowing that Sherlock had prompted the child to lose her temper. But nevertheless, the girl’s reaction was far too extreme. The elderly schoolteacher bit back a smile as the girl humbly wrote her sentences, but still had gumption enough to change ‘Margaret’ to ‘Molly.’

For her part, Molly was as regretful of what she had done as she was proud. The boy certainly hadn’t deserved to be attacked, but she could no longer have borne his nuisance. And to call her ‘mouse’! Why, he ought to be punished severely for that alone, not to mention his abhorrent behavior toward her! Tossing chalk and paper, as if he wasn’t more than 5 years of age!

Her pride thus wounded and her mind made up about the boy, Molly walked out of the classroom with her head held high. Mary Morstan, the neighbor girl Molly hoped and knew would become her dearest friend, rushed up to her from her waiting place by the tree. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock standing across the yard talking with the beautiful Irene Adler, whose face conveyed frustration as Sherlock turned away from her mid-sentence.

Molly determinedly walked in the opposite direction, hooking her arm through Mary’s as they began the walk home. Their journey, though, was short-lived, as Sherlock stepped across their path. Molly resolutely ignored him, lifting her chin up haughtily and walking past him.

‘Molly, wait.’ He walked behind her, trying to get her attention. He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders, his curls falling over his eyes endearingly. ‘I’m sorry for teasing you.’

Molly stopped and cast a disdainful, sideways glare at him. Tugging firmly on Mary’s arm, she pulled her friend along once more, leaving Sherlock to stare after them.

‘Oh, Molly, how could you?’ Mary whispered in astonishment. ‘Sherlock’s always getting under everyone’s skin with his deductions, but he’s never,  _ever,_  apologized before!’

‘There’s a world of difference between deducing someone and being called ‘mouse,’ Mary!’ Molly argued defensively. ‘I may be plain and lack the grace and charisma of girls far more beautiful than I, but I shall not stand for being called names, especially ‘mouse’ by an arrogant boy.’

Mary gasped. ‘But Molly…’

Molly interrupted and said firmly, ‘I shall never forgive him!’ 

* * *

The first term was almost half-way through and Molly eagerly anticipated their testings. For near gone two months, she and Sherlock had been waging an unspoken battle as to who was top in each subject. And Molly refused to be second to the arrogant boy.

Mrs Hudson smiled at the class, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. ‘The results of the mathematics examination are in.’

Molly breathed in deeply and clasped Mary’s hand beside her in anticipation.

‘The top three are as follows,’ Mrs Hudson continued. ‘In first, William Holmes.’

A keen sense of disappointment filled Molly. She could almost feel Sherlock’s smug grin behind her.

‘Second, Margaret Hooper.’

Mary squeezed her hand in congratulations and Molly beamed at her. Although not first, she would not wallow in defeat, instead relishing the success of second place.

The rest of the announcement faded as the class packed their belongings and were dismissed for the day. Gathering her books, Molly slid out of her seat and turned around just as Sherlock stood. He caught her gaze and grinned arrogantly.

Her nose twitched involuntarily and she huffed. With a wink, he swept from the room, Irene on his heels.

‘Oh, Molly, aren’t you ever going to forgive him?’ Mary admonished her friend as they walked down the dirt path toward home.

Molly was about to answer when she caught sight of Sherlock up ahead, standing next to Irene. Her heart twitched in her chest and she grew more annoyed at the curly-haired boy. ‘No, I will not.’

As they passed by, Sherlock abandoned Irene and caught up to them, his books’ leather strap slung over his shoulder. ‘Congratulations, Molly. According to Mrs H, you were only a few points behind me.’

Molly quirked an eyebrow and turned her head to nod at him in acknowledgement.

‘At least you’re no longer ignoring me,’ he quipped.

Molly stopped and spoke firmly without looking back. ‘It is polite to extend an acknowledgment of congratulations. I was merely applying basic manners to a situation.’

‘Oh, get off your high horse, Molly.’ Sherlock forced a laugh.

Walking once more, Molly pulled Mary along, not deigning to reply to the boy.

‘Oh, Molly,’ her friend sighed. ‘Why don’t you let it go?’

‘I refuse to be friendly to someone who, not only insulted me to the highest level, but associates with the likes of Irene Adler. For all his brilliance, he’s easily turned by a pretty face.’ Molly glanced back to see Irene pulling Sherlock along in the opposite direction.

‘Well, the way I hear it, Sherlock doesn’t like her that way. Says he prefers someone with a brain to someone who is ‘beautiful by cultural standards.’

Molly felt her traitorous heart flutter, but hid it with a haughty lift of her chin. ‘He certainly doesn’t seem to believe it himself.’

Mary snorted. ‘You’re just jealous.’

‘I am not, take that back!’ Molly snapped.

‘Well, you are!’ The blonde prodded. ‘And she’s jealous of you! John Watson told me that Sherlock told him that you were the smartest girl in school  _right in front of Irene_! And that being smart was better than being pretty.’

For one second, Molly felt an indescribable joy fill her. She stopped and looked over her shoulder, catching Sherlock’s eye as he looked back at the same time. Her heart skipped a beat.

But in the second, her anger rose as Mary’s words sunk in. She whipped about and marched on. ‘Well, if that isn’t the most insulting thing I’ve heard! How dare he!’

‘Wait, Molly, I don’t think he meant it like  _that_!’ Mary rushed after her, trying to explain.

‘So I’m not pretty, or fashionable, or graceful, like Irene. I don’t give two figs! I’d rather have brains than be an empty-headed ninny like her!’ Molly stomped on, her pace quickening, unaware of her friend’s struggle to keep up. If anything, this revelation only solidified her promise to never forgive Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This au is now continued as its own separate story! Further updates will be posted to my story 'How Dare You!'


	59. Choices Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Any chance you could write a fic about molly getting pregnant from sherlock the night before he leaves but she doesnt say anything andalmost 20 years later he and mycroft meet his daughter because she is an amazing hacker and they need her for a case.
> 
> Yes. Yes I can. :)

Takeaway containers littered every available space in 221B, papers were strewn across the floor and, amidst the chaos, Sherlock stood staring intently at the wall behind the couch. The visual map he’d made of this case made no sense. His hair was unkempt, the black hair flecked with silver frizzing out in puffs, dark circles embraced his eyes, and the dressing gown he’d been wearing over his pyjama bottoms for the past three days hung off his lean frame.

Behind him, Mycroft tapped his umbrella impatiently against the floor.

‘It’s time to bring in an expert, Sherlock. You are clearly not up the task.’

Sherlock merely grunted a, rather unflattering, insult and crossed his arms. His eyes roved across the large space, taking in all the information and strings connecting persons and incidents. There was no logic to the murders; no pattern, no discernable suspect.

Mycroft sighed and stood to his feet. Sherlock, in a rare moment of kindness, refrained from commenting on the creak in his brother’s knees as he stood and the way the man had to push himself out of the chair. Though still in decent shape, age had taken a toll on Mycroft and nearing 60, he wasn’t the spry MI6 agent he had been once upon a time.

Together, the Holmes boys contemplated the map. Several minutes passed before Sherlock finally conceded with a sigh of defeat. ‘Very well. Bring in one of your minions. I trust that you will choose someone more tolerable than usual.’

‘I shall certainly endeavor to.’ Mycroft quipped. With a nod, he swept from the flat, already knowing exactly who he would call.

It was time.

* * *

‘Let me go, you great big oaf!’ Georgina kicked furiously at her captor, but her efforts were in vain. She shouted more abuse at the burly man who had barged into her flat and tossed her over his shoulder. All her martial arts training over the years were rendered futile when he easily overpowered her and dragged her out into the dark, New York City night.

To her surprise, she was gently placed into a vehicle. The man bowed his head as he leaned inside and muttered, ‘Apologies for the manner of your retrieval, Miss Hooper. I could not risk you fleeing.’

With a curt smile, he straightened and slammed the door shut on her shout of protest. She reached out and yanked the handle of the decidedly upscale car, but found it to be locked tight. Brushing her unruly hair out of her eyes in frustration, she slumped in the seat and faced forward.

She did not let out a shriek of surprise at the man sitting across from her. No, she did not.

With thinning, red-gray hair, the man surveyed her with piercing blue eyes and a haughty chin. His three-piece suit spoke of subdued wealth and power, and she immediately noticed the arrow dart trigger in the handle of the brolly by his side.

‘Miss Hooper, hacker extraordinaire, a pleasure to meet you at last.’ He nodded to her in greeting, his accent putting him in the upper side of London. ‘I apologize for the theatrics. Necessary, but unfortunate. I did not want to run the risk of you refusing to accompany me.’

‘So kidnapping is your answer?’

He sighed. ‘Miss Hooper, I have come to you on a matter of international importance. I needed to ensure your presence.’

‘Well, you’re doing a damn good job of convincing me to be cooperative.’ She crossed her arms and quirked an eyebrow.

The man swallowed thickly and she saw something flash across his face before the cold mask appeared once more. ‘My name is Mycroft Holmes. I hold a minor position in the British Government and am in need of someone with your… expertise.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Interestingly, you’re telling the truth.’

Mycroft’s eyes drifted over her face and he smiled almost fondly. ‘I am indeed, Miss Hooper. I ask that you listen to my proposition. You will be richly rewarded, I assure you.’

She bit her lip in thought. Something about him struck her as familiar; intimidating, but at the same time, comfortable. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, worn down by time and hardship, but piercing nonetheless. Whoever this man was, she decided it was worth her time finding out.

‘Georgina.’

‘Pardon?’ He frowned and tilted his head.

She smirked. ‘Call me Georgina. And if you hold a minor position in the British Government, I’m the bloody Queen.’ She leaned back in the seat and crossed her arms. ‘Now, what’s the job?’

* * *

Within an hour, Georgina found herself on a private jet hurtling across the Atlantic toward Europe. She flipped through the case file Mycroft had given her. ‘I see why you needed a hacker. Was your expert really trying to solve this without accessing their database? Is he an idiot?’

Across from her, Mycroft let out a rather undignified snort of laughter and hastily rearranged his expression into a frozen mask. He cleared his throat and drummed his fingers against the arm of his seat. ‘He has rather unorthodox methods that have proven successful… in the past.’

‘Well,’ Georgina smirked and tossed the folder back at him, ‘he’s still an idiot.’

‘Yes, yes he is.’

Something in the soft murmur made Georgina’s smile slide from her face. His eyes were gentle as they looked at her, showing a tinge of… was that regret? She frowned and turned to look out the window.

Several hours passed in silence before being broken by the buzz of Georgina’s phone. She fumbled pulling it out of her pocket and stared at the ringing device in surprise. How did she have reception in the middle of the ocean? Her eyes flicked to Mycroft who merely quirked an amused eyebrow in answer to her unspoken question.

‘Minor position, my arse,’ she grumbled as she answered the call. ‘Hey, mom.’

‘Hey, love. I just want to check that we’re still on for Chinese tonight. I might be a bit late, we’re still processing some accident victims.’ Molly rambled on as usual, her voice tired, but still perky.

‘Oh, right, yeah…’ Georgina awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck and felt a flush of guilt rise in her cheeks. ‘I can’t actually make it tonight. I’ve… well, I’ve got a job.’

‘Please tell me it’s not with those corrupt idiots with the metal suits and conspiracy theories.’

‘No, no, no,’ Georgina denied vehemently, her black curls whipping as she shook her head. ‘It’s abroad. England. London, actually!’

The other side grew completely silent.

‘Mom?’

‘London?’ Molly squeaked.

‘Yeah, I know it’s a bit last minute, but I’ve always wanted to go anyway. See where you grew up and all. I’d have asked you to come, too, but I don’t think it would have been okay with them, and we left right away.’

‘You’re… there already?’ All Molly’s usual cheeriness dropped, replaced with horrified disbelief.

Mycroft’s gaze pierced her as Georgina shifted uncomfortably, not sure what was going on with her mom. ‘Not yet, we’re still in the air.’

‘Who is ‘we’?’ Molly demanded.

Georgina flicked a nervous gaze to Mycroft. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

To her surprise, Mycroft reached over the space between them and gestured for her to hand him the phone. She hesitantly surrendered it to him, briefly wondering if he was going to destroy it.

He put the device to his ear and sighed heavily. ‘Hello, Molly. It’s been a while.’

Georgina’s eyes widened. For a few seconds, there was silence, then a muffled shout rang across the line as her mom bellowed into the phone. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but apparently her sweet, kind mom was giving a proper dressing down to this powerful man who sat there taking it with resignation.

Eventually, he seemed to have had enough and interrupted Molly’s tirade. ‘I don’t believe a phone call is the ideal medium with which to have this conversation, Molly. I only ask that for the time being you entrust your daughter’s care with me. We will discuss this when the case is over; I’ll arrange for a flight for you to London within the hour. I think it best this discussion happen here, don’t you?’

He waited for her reply before adding solemnly, ‘I need not tell you that Georgina is an adult, capable of making up her own mind and choosing her own path. It is in both your interests to respect that.’

His eyes darted to her as he disconnected the call. She swallowed, understanding that his words held a double meaning.

Whatever was the history between him and her mom, she wouldn’t find out until her job was finished. But whatever it was, it could change her life.

_To be continued..._


	60. Choices Part II

The plane touched down in London and Mycroft ushered her into a black, unmarked car. They sped through the London streets, the city coming to life as the sun rose, peeking through dark clouds. Georgina's mind raced between the case and the mystery of her mom's connection to this man. But, like she had trained herself to, she put aside her personal case and focused on the case Mycroft assigned to her.

The car eventually pulled into a warehouse district and she was led into an abandoned building where a high-tech workstation was set up in the middle.

She raised her eyebrows at Mycroft who merely twirled his umbrella and sauntered over to the computers. 'I believe this is your domain.'

Georgina sat down at the console, awed at the technology at her fingertips. 'This is… amazing!' Her fingers began flying over the keyboard as she brought the computers to life. Behind her, Mycroft watched as she pulled up file after file, accessing each database and digging deeper. Having fully read the file and knowing what evidence to look for, within two hours, Georgina had uncovered enough evidence to link the murders to a recently-elected MP, who was slowly eliminating those he bought-out and blackmailed for support. His web extended across multiple countries and they had caught his blood-stained hands in time before his influence could have long-lasting ramifications.

'Incredible,' Mycroft murmured as Georgina pushed back from the table and grinned up at him in smug triumph.

'So, Mister Government Man,' she quipped. 'Now that I've done as you asked, I'd like a few questions of my own answered.'

He quirked an eyebrow. 'Your mother will be here within an hour. Can this not wait?'

'No _pe_.' She crossed her arms and popped the 'p', causing a flash of… something to cross his face. Just another mystery to add to the pile.

He glanced at his pocket watch and sighed. 'Very well, I will answer only those questions that I believe will be of little consequence without your mother present. Proceed.'

'Okay, fine. Why was I brought all the way to London, kidnapped, really,' she pointed out with a frown, 'when all of this could have been finished in New York an hour or so after you grabbed me?'

Mycroft swallowed, but did not flinch from her steely gaze. He opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted when the doors to the warehouse were flung open, echoing loudly in the wide space.

A man dressed in a long, wool coat strode in, Mycroft's men at his heels. They retreated at Mycroft's nod. Black curls tinged with silver bounced with each step the man took and his angular face was writ with anger. 'I did not intend for you to bring in some idiotic  _American_ ,' the man sneered as he stormed toward Mycroft. 'You wasted valuable time flying across the ocean and back when there is surely someone in London, many people,  _most_ people, who would be of equal or greater intelligence! What if the killer had struck again?'

By now the man was crowding Mycroft, having completely ignored Georgina, and glaring silent threats with his piercing eyes.

'But he did not, and we have his identity. Case solved,' Mycroft shrugged all-too-carelessly and turned to Georgina. 'My thanks, Miss Hooper, for your expertise.'

The man froze for a brief second at the sound of her name, before his head whipped to the side. Georgina stared up at him, slowly rising to her feet. His black curls, though shorter and laced with the silver of age, were exactly like hers. His eyes, now that they were staring at her, wide and disbelieving, were colored by flakes of blue, green, and gold… just like hers. She swallowed as she read his stance, his emotions running amuck across his face: hope, fear, wonder, surprise, shock... As her mind connected the dots, the same emotions ran across her face.

'Sherlock, this is Georgina Hooper,' Mycroft softly interrupted their mental deductions and with two little words, tilted Georgina's world upside-down. 'Georgina, Sherlock Holmes… your father.'

* * *

The ride to Baker Street was spent in stunned silence. Sherlock sat across from his daughter… _his daughter_  and couldn't take his eyes from her. She was the spitting image of him, her cheekbones high and sharp, her eyes, so like his, taking him in with the same deductive glint, and her hair... the black curls were tangled and unruly and cascaded down her back.

He swallowed and twisted his gloved hands in his lap. How was he supposed to talk to her? What was he supposed to say?

He cleared his throat once or twice and forced a brief smile. 'A hacker, then. Not a bad choice given your genetic makeup; a genius father and a mother of more-than-average intelligence. I wonder, though, how she feels about your somewhat less than legal choice in career.'

Georgina's eyes flashed and her countenance darkened. 'How I use my genius is my choice and I choose to use it for good; something mom understands and has always supported. I don't need your approval,  _father_.' She spat the word venomously and turned her head away to glare at the increasingly cloudy skies of London.

A similar frown darkened Sherlock's face. He hadn't intended to insult her. Before he could respond, the car pulled alongside the curb outside his flat. He led them up to the door just as the heavens opened and rain cascaded down in sheets. The only sounds as they trudged up the stairs to his flat were their footfalls on the steps accompanied by the rhythmic pattering of the rain. The silence between them only served to make his racing thoughts louder and more chaotic.

Mycroft immediately bustled into the kitchen to put the kettle on, leaving Sherlock and Georgina in the lounge. Having lived for so long without care for cleaning, Sherlock was suddenly aware of the state of his flat. He awkwardly pushed a few containers of week-old takeaway with his foot and shoved his hands in his pockets. 'I wasn't really expecting… company.'

Georgina glanced around with a hint of disgust on her face. 'Clearly.'

'Cleaning was really John's and Mrs Hudson's priority. Not mine.'

'Mom was right,' she mumbled, poking her foot at the corner of the coffee table which was laden with papers and several laptops.

'What do you mean?' He couldn't help himself from asking. What had Molly told her about him?

Her smile was a bit sad as she glanced up at him. 'You really were the chaos to her order.'

He laughed softly. 'She really was. Did she…' he swallowed nervously, not noticing the car screeching to halt outside. 'Did she tell you much about me?'

Her face clouded over and she shook her head. 'Not much. Little things like: 'Don't leave your finished experiments to rot,  _god,_ you're so much like your father!''

Sherlock smiled softly at that. 'But not who I was?'

Her brow furrowed and she gave him a sad, almost pitying look. As she was about to reply, the door downstairs burst open and a familiar voice, deeper with age, bellowed up the stairs.

'Mycroft Holmes, how dare you kidnap my daughter! When I get my hands on you, you're going to wish I wasn't trained in autopsies!' Molly's furious shout preceded her whirlwind entrance into the room. Her once auburn hair was threaded with silver and slightly damp from the rain, cascading around her face which held a few more lines than he remembered. But other than that, she hadn't changed since that last night. Her thunderous expression dropped immediately when she took in the man beside her daughter. Her face paled and she froze in her tracks. 'Oh…'

* * *

Georgina turned at her mother's shout and felt the anger rise like a tidal wave when Molly barged into the room. The shock of meeting the father she thought was dead had worn off and hurt warred with anger for dominance.

For his part, Sherlock didn't know who to look at. His daughter or his… well, Molly. The woman who disappeared from his life 20 years ago.

Mycroft hovered in the doorway with the tray of tea until Sherlock nodded at him in dismissal. 'Thank you, Mycroft, but I believe this is a conversation best kept between the three of us.'

Mycroft nodded at Sherlock's silent request and set the tray on a nearby chair, before retreating to his car downstairs. He had the driver idle outside the flat, just in case, but he locked the impenetrable doors. Because if the entire truth was coming out tonight, he'd need the extra precaution.

* * *

Unable to stand any longer, Molly lowered herself onto the familiar sofa, a bittersweet feeling overwhelming her already stricken emotions at the unchanging state of the flat. She had been overwhelmed with panic when she found out Mycroft had swept Georgina away to London that she hadn't considered the emotional ramifications returning here would have on  _her._  There was utter chaos around her and Sherlock stood calmly in the middle of it all. He'd aged well, his hair showing signs of silver, but still as fit as ever. She resented that a bit, she never had quite managed to lose the last ten pounds from carrying Georgina.

She noted the smiley face behind the papers tacked to the wall and her mouth turned up slightly.

'Something amusing, Molly?' Sherlock asked as he took a seat in his leather chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin. She smiled at the familiar pose.

'Just that you haven't seemed to change,' she replied.

'But you have. A great change, in fact.' His eyes traveled over to Georgina, who stood with her arms crossed and a storm brewing on her face. 'If my deductions are correct,  _our daughter_  was born approximately nine months following the Magnussen case?'

Molly averted her eyes and nodded. Guilt and regret wrapped her in a clenching embrace, but she firmly believed she'd made the right choice to leave London all those years ago. A hard choice, but the right one for her and her unborn child.

'And you never married. You raised her alone.'

Molly flinched in surprise, a blush stealing up her cheeks as she nodded again.

'Why did you not tell I have a daughter?'

She closed her eyes, telling herself she was only imagining the hurt and betrayal laced in his voice. 'I didn't want to burden you. It was just a one-off before you…' She glanced up at her daughter and skirted the topic of his exile. 'Then Moriarty came back and I found out I was pregnant and I knew you'd want no distractions, no burdens. A child would hold you back and be a responsibility you wouldn't want.'

His brow furrowed as he gaped at her, incredulous. 'A one-off? That's… and why would you think that I wouldn't want to be a father?' His eyes narrowed as she bit her lip guiltily. The last piece fell into place and his fury ignited. ' _Mycroft_.'

'He told me that you would be distracted by the baby, by me, and that it would be for all our benefits to part ways.' The lines sounded rote, as though she'd been telling them to herself over and over again, trying to believe them for years. Which she had. 'I wanted to keep my baby safe. And Mycroft could ensure that.'

'So I'm the product of a one-night stand?' Georgina cut across angrily. Her parents (God,  _her parents_ ) turned to her. Molly grimaced as her the full extent of her daughter's hurt and wrath came pouring out. ''Wasn't this something I deserved to know, that my father's not some long-dead fiancé? That he is, in fact, alive and well! Oh, and he doesn't even KNOW I EXIST!'

She stomped her foot as she bellowed the last bit, tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes. Molly leapt from the couch. 'Georgina, please, let me explain. I… What was happening back then was complicated… and so very dangerous. I was afraid that telling you who your father truly was would…' She twisted her hands, but spoke confidently, knowing her decision, though difficult, was the right one under the circumstances. 'That it would put you in danger.'

'Danger from what?' Georgina snapped, but her anger was fading. Her mother was always honest with her. A lie this big… it must have been for a  _very_ good reason.

'From James Moriarty,' Sherlock interrupted, standing and walking over to them. 'He had wreaked havoc on my life, having once threatened the lives of the 3 people I hold most dear.'

Georgina glanced at her mom and frowned in confusion at the flash of hurt on Molly's face. Sherlock must have noticed it, too, from the corner of his eye. He swallowed and blinked for a moment, before continuing.

'With your mother's help, I cheated his game of death and thought him to be gone. Another player entered the game, a more dangerous adversary who I… I disposed of. But then Moriarty reappeared, or rather a new Moriarty, Jim's older brother James. And he knew… he truly knew my heart and threatened it.' He raked a hand through his hair. 'By the time I defeated him and ensured the safety of those close to me, your mother had been gone for several years.'

'Why didn't you look for her?'

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. 'I figured by then she had found some nice, boring man and settled down. So, I let her live her life.'

'So it really was just a one-off?' Georgina whispered, her heart breaking for her mom. And for herself. She'd grown up without a father, but she'd always hoped for one; a dad who would complete their family, who would take her for ice cream at the park, teach her to drive, listen to her deductions and spout out his own, and someone who would threaten the boys who picked her up for a date.

'No.'

Georgina's eyebrows rose.

Molly stiffened, her eyes darting to him in surprise.

Sherlock took a deep breath and forced a smile at his daughter. 'It was never a one-off with me. I didn't know how to say it then, but I loved her. I  _love_  her. If I had known about you, if Mycroft hadn't interfered, I would have moved heaven and earth to keep her here. I would have done everything in my power to keep both of you safe.'

Molly's breath hitched and she bit her lip, her eyes wide in hope.

A smile grew on Georgina's face. Oh, she was still entirely pissed off at her mother for the whole situation. But she'd watched her mother live a lonely life, never falling in love. And from the way Molly was staring up at Sherlock in what could only be complete adoration, Georgina finally knew why her mom had never given her heart to anyone.

Because it already belonged to someone.

Sherlock, apparently uncomfortable and embarrassed by his sentimental display, straightened up stiffly and adopted a serious expression. 'I may need some time to adjust to this revelation, but I'd like to get to know you...' He glanced nervously at Molly, the tips of his ears burning red. 'Both of you.'

Georgina nodded eagerly, a smile lighting her face as her hurt and anger disappeared. Before Sherlock could brace himself, she hurled herself at him and wrapped him in a breath-stealing hug, the kind her mom gave her that made her feel completely and utterly loved and accepted. Molly laughed at the 'oomph' he made when the breath was nearly knocked out of him.

Slowly, he relaxed and wrapped his arms around Georgina. She was so much like him in temper and looks. But her smile was all Molly's, bright and wide and like sunshine in his life. He didn't realize how dark his life had become without Molly. Without  _them_.

Molly's hopeful smile eased the pain of twenty years apart. Oh, he was still going to kill Mycroft. Later, preferably with Molly's assistance. But for right now, he was going to get to know his daughter and convince Molly to return to London. Where she belonged.

'There are choices I've made in my life that I would never make again.' He rested his chin atop Georgina's head, keeping his gaze on Molly. 'Neither of you are one of them.'


	61. Of Cases and Castles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from allaboardtheships: If you're accepting prompts at any time... Molly, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John investigate a case at the T in the Park music festival. As day leads into dusk and dusk to night, Molly and Sherlock find themselves separated from the group and decide to put the case on hold for the night.

As the sun set, its golden rays illuminating Strathallan castle, the excited crowd grew ever thicker. At the edge of the estate, Molly scanned the new arrivals to the festival. Lestrade and Sherlock wandered among the people, asking questions and, in Sherlock’s case, ducking punches from insulted concert-goers. Occasionally, she would catch a glimpse of his dark curls bouncing amid the sea of heads.

She bit her lip to hide her smile when one lucky man managed to clip the detectives jaw. She knew she should have felt sorry for Sherlock, but with an the arrogant lift of his abused chin, he sauntered away as the man ushered his ‘not-wife’ in the opposite direction, and she couldn’t bring herself to do anything more than shake her head in exasperation as he walked toward her.

‘Is there anyone you have not managed to insult today, Sherlock?’ She quipped when he was within hearing distance.

He shouldered his way through the crowd with a scowl to stand beside her. He clasped his hands behind his back as he proceeded to survey the sea of people. ‘Apparently not.’ He cleared his throat and cast her a sideways glance. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘Are you kidding?’ She gushed, bouncing on her toes. ‘It’s the first time the T in the Park Festival has been held at a _castle_! And I’m in Scotland! You’re darn right, I’m enjoying this!’

‘You haven’t forgotten that we’re here on a case, right?’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust as a less-than-hygenic couple passed by. ‘Which, quite frankly, has been a waste of my time. Not _one_ murder. Not even a decent pickpocket incident.’

Molly rolled her eyes good-naturedly and sighed. ‘You _can_ just enjoy the evening, you know. It was just an idle, vague tip. Greg can certainly handle it.’

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. ‘Greg?’

Turning on her heel, Molly once again rolled her eyes. ‘Lestrade, you prat. Now come on, let’s go find John and Mary. If the case is going cold, I’d like to grab a good seat for the concert.’

From the corner of her eye, she saw him jog to catch up. ‘A valid point. I’m sure Graham can handle an amateur threat. But why bother John and Mary now? It’s their first trip post-spawning. I think they’re rather interested in remaining _separate_ from the rest of us.’

Molly didn’t say anything, but a warm feeling bubbled in her chest and she quirked an eyebrow.

It was now dusk, the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, and the atmosphere of the crowd was reaching a fever point as the featured musical artist was called onto the stage. To Sherlock’s confusion, instead of trying to get as close to the main stage as possible, Molly grabbed his hand and pulled him in the opposite direction. Not that he was complaining.

The crowd, though expansive, began to thin as they crossed to the far edge of the estate.  A row of trees lined the end and it was under one of them that Molly pulled Sherlock. They were by no means alone, but it was certainly quieter and less crowded.

‘I would have thought you’d want to be front and center with the rest of the mindless masses,’ Sherlock wondered aloud as they turned to face the flashing lights and throng of jumping people.

‘Yeah, I would.’ Molly shrugged as she brushed aside his inadvertent insult, laying out her light jacket on the ground and settling down to watch the show. ‘But you would have hated it.’

‘Ah.’ Sherlock blinked, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. ‘That… that was… _nice_ of you?’

Molly nodded and hummed with a smile.

‘However, I do not want to keep you from enjoying the concert.’

Afraid that the constant rolling of her eyes would have long-lasting repercussions, she reached up and tugged him down next to her. ‘I wouldn’t enjoy it if I was up there without you, silly.’

A warm feeling suffused his chest as he awkwardly resituated himself on the ground beside her. The beat of the music throbbed across the crowd in a wave, the bass heavy and thundering in the ground underneath them.

For Molly’s sake, he kept his cynical comments about the music to himself… for the most part. If the occasional derogatory remark happened to slip through, Molly simply smiled and teasingly told him to ‘shut it.’

As the night grew darker and the concert was coming to a close, Molly eagerly leaned forward and wrapped her arms around her knees. She turned to look back at him and beamed. ‘The fireworks will be starting soon!’

Sherlock glanced up at the sky, seeing now that they would have a perfect, unobstructed view of the display over the stage. When the first whistling mortar shot into the sky, he glanced over at Molly just as the shell exploded. The lights danced across her awed face and he felt something akin to contentment wash over him.

Hesitantly, he scooted over until his right leg touched her left. Swallowing his nervousness, he placed his arm gently around her and felt a flush of pride when she immediately leaned into his side. As the fireworks continued, Molly rested her head against his chest and turned into him.

‘Was this an acceptable second date?’ He asked uncertainly.

She tilted her head up to look at him and smiled. ‘It’s perfect.’


	62. Moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly Unilock at the cinema. Sherlock asks Molly to come with him, John and Mary to see a movie. He thinks it’s a double date. Molly is oblivious.

Why was he doing this? He hated public places, he hated science fiction films, and the stench of overly-buttered, heart-attack inducing popcorn was nearly unbearable.

‘Popcorn, Sherlock?’

He glanced to the side to see Molly offering the yellowy snack with a smile that nearly stopped his heart.

Oh, that’s why.

He absentmindedly shoved a handful of popcorn in his mouth, his chest swelling in pride at the way her smile grew. Yes, this may not have been such a bad idea. To him, she was, by far, the most beautiful and most brilliant girl in Uni. And she’d agreed to accompany him to see a film.

On her other side, John and Mary giggled and acted like the sickeningly-smitten couple they were. Every time something suspenseful or scary happened in the film, Mary would gasp and John would pull her close, as though he could protect her from fictional situations. Sherlock resisted the juvenile urge to toss popcorn at them in resentment.

It was his and Molly’s first date and he had no idea what to do. Where were his hands supposed to go? On the arm rests? Or on his knees? Folding them in his lap or crossing them, maybe?

To his befuddlement, Molly was completely at ease, her eyes glued to the screen as the fantastical action unfolded. She’d been the one stammering and mooning over him for years. Why wasn’t she as nervous as he?

Halfway through the film, Sherlock was still at a loss as to how to proceed. He fidgeted endlessly, finally stilling when Molly glanced at him worriedly.

Several rows in front of them, a man stretched his arms over his head, then casually lowered his arm to drape casually over the shoulder of his date. She immediately cuddled into his side.

_Interesting._ Sherlock looked over at Molly. Slowly, he reached his arms above his head. Molly shot him a confused glance, before returning her attention to the screen. He ignored John and Mary’s snickers when they noticed what he was doing. Leisurely, he let his arm fall around her, his hand resting on her shoulder.

Molly slowly glanced down at his hand, then turned to look at him as she whispered, ‘Sherlock, what are you doing?’

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. ‘Is this not what couples do?’

‘Couples?!’

Sherlock took in her completely baffled expression and realized he may have made an error. ‘Are we not on a date?’

Molly gulped, her eyes wide in the dark theater, as she stared up at him in shock. ‘A-are we?’

‘I thought so.’ He began to withdraw his arm in defeat, trying to ignore the suffocating disappointment in his chest. Before he could, though, Molly’s confusion gave way to a bright smile and she shifted closer until she was cuddled comfortably under his arm.

His chest filled with contentment once more and Sherlock exhaled deeply, resituating himself so that her head rested in the crook of his neck, his arm holding her close to his side. He glared over her head at John and Mary’s proud smirks.

‘But don’t think you’re not in trouble for assuming I knew this was a date,’ Molly whispered as she held up the bag of popcorn.

Sherlock smirked and obediently took several pieces. ‘I would never.’


	63. Sweet Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Pretty please, if you are taking prompts: Molly runs into Janine.
> 
> Hope I did it justice! :)

Digging through her bag for her Oyster card, Molly didn't see the woman coming until a somewhat familiar voice called out, 'Molly?'

She jerked her head up and glanced around. 'Oh, crap,' she said through clenched teeth when she saw the voluptuous brunette approaching her.

'It is Molly, right?' The Irish lilt in her voice grated on Molly's nerves. Normally a very non-judgmental person, Molly just couldn't help holding a slight grudge against the woman. Sure, Sherlock had used her, tricked her, and teased her with a fake relationship… (Okay, maybe Janine was a tiny bit justified in wanting revenge) But Molly thought that it was complete overkill to slander him so in retaliation!

'Yep.' Molly forced a smile. 'How have you been, Janine?'

Janine flipped her hair over her shoulder loftily. 'Absolutely wonderful! Just visiting London for the day before heading back out to my cottage. It really is quite lovely out there and the gardener is absolutely delish! Now, enough about me, how have you been? Married by now, I assume,' she laughed, looking down at the rings adorning Molly's hand. 'Otherwise, you'd be in the running for longest engagement!'

'Mmm, indeed.' Molly glanced down at her newly acquired wedding ring that fit perfectly against the vintage engagement ring her husband gave her, the one that belonged to his grandmother. A thrill of happiness filled her and she forgot her dislike of Janine for a moment. 'Just two months. But it was actually a very short engagement.'

'Oh?' Janine frowned in confusion. 'Trouble in paradise? You were still engaged at Mary's wedding, nearly two years ago! Couldn't keep him happy all the time?'

Molly noticed the icy edge to Janine's voice when she mentioned Mary, but ignored it. But Molly's ire was reignited at the obvious attempt by Janine to make herself feel superior to Molly. 'Oh, well,  _that_ engagement ended right after the wedding. We weren't right for each other.'

'Well, how do you like that?' Janine gushed enthusiastically. 'Two men in two years, Molly Hooper, you are a vixen!'

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Molly returned to her search for her Oyster card. 'Not a vixen, just someone who loves one man and didn't want a future with someone else.'

'Oooh, so you nabbed  _the_ one?' Janine waggled her eyebrows.

'Oh, nabbed him, married him, and  _aha_!' She exclaimed, pulling out her card. She smiled at Janine's confusion and let the bombshell drop. 'Currently working on his desire for a team of miniature Consulting Detectives.'

Janine choked on air. 'You… and  _Sherlock?_ '

Molly nodded, her grin growing.

'Married, as in, he's not using you for a case?'

'Really, truly married.' Molly felt a bit offended by Janine's incredulous reaction. The bus pulled up just then and she jerked her head toward it. 'Well, this is me.'

She couldn't bring herself to say it was nice to see Janine, so she settled for, 'I hope you enjoy your day back in London.'

Janine smiled uneasily and waved. 'It was nice running into you.'

Molly nodded and climbed aboard, swiping her card to pay. Just before the driver shut the doors, Molly turned around with a devious thought, her petty need for a tiny bit of revenge coming to the fore, and called out, 'Oh, and Janine?'

Janine turned around expectantly.

'We're up to eight times a night… but not always in Baker Street.'

With a wink, Molly let the door close on Janine's gobsmacked face.


	64. Security Breach

Sherlock stared through the tiny window into the lab, where Molly, completely unaware of the quandary he was in, fussed about with her latest experiment. It was all her fault. He'd never had anything like this happen before. Oh, John had come close, but his feelings for John were of deep friendship and comradery. This… these feelings were rooted in something deeper.

Yes, Molly Hooper had done the one thing he thought could never be done.

She'd broken in to his mind.

Broken in and made herself quite at home, stealing his peace of mind. She broke all the rules he'd put in place, bypassing all his safeguards and alarm systems, all his defenses and burrowed her way into his hidden thoughts.

It wasn't until Moriarty's return and ultimate demise that Sherlock realized she was there. He'd been locking up the vaults in his Mind Palace, ensuring the Moriarty that lived there, that embodied Sherlock's own evils, would never escape, when he heard the faintest whisper, like the caress of the wind.

He'd followed the sound through the corridors, until he'd reached the furthest room from the vaults. Opening the door, he'd been surprised to discover his flat at 221b. He frowned as he walked inside and glanced around. He'd built the room right before he went off to dismantle Moriarty's network, as a reminder of home and who he was fighting for. No, the room itself wasn't what confused him. It was the pathologist sitting in his chair, reading his encyclopedia of bee facts, that pulled him up short.

Molly had smiled at him before returning to her book, her glasses perched on the edge of her upturned nose, and her ponytail slung over her shoulder. She looked… right. And he didn't know why.

For a month, he'd sequestered himself away, in his thoughts. When cases grew dry, he'd withdraw into his mind flat and contemplate the woman sitting quietly and contentedly. Molly would smile at him knowingly when he entered, then return to whatever book she had been reading.

Sherlock both hated and loved the mystery of her. She was the only constant in his mind. Others came and went when needed, giving voice to different parts of his psyche. But he knew, somehow he just knew, that this Molly fully embodied her real-life counterpart. His subconscious mind was trying to tell him something.

So he studied her. His mind's recreation of the pathologist was perfect, down to the freckle on her lower rib he'd seen when she'd stretched lazily in his chair. He never spoke to her, though. Being in his mind, he knew that she would only say what he already knew. But he knew that speaking would break the moment, ruin whatever mystery his mind had given to him to solve.

Eventually, he began occupying himself with other things while in the same room, hoping that something would connect with the Mind Molly Mystery. He'd organize his memory files or brainstorm a new list of potential experiments. Redbeard even found his way inside, curling up at Molly's feet.

Hours he'd spend with his Mind Molly in companionable silence.

Slowly, the answer came to him, a passing thought that nudged the corners of his mind and grew in presence. When realization did finally dawn on him, that the reason he was comfortable in the silence with her, that she had so embedded herself in his thoughts, yet did not impede his work, was because the feelings he felt for her were the far-reaching roots of love, he struggled with how to proceed with the information.

And as he stood on the other side of the lab doors, watching the woman who had thus stolen his thoughts for a month, he still had not decided what to do. But it wouldn't do to let her remain free of the consequences. After all, she was a thief.

She'd stolen his heart.

Flipping up the collar of his coat, he ruffled his hair and strode into the lab, his mind made up.

He wouldn't settle until he'd stolen hers in return.


	65. Operation: First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt from the lovely superwholockian2108: Are you doing prompts? If you are, can do a fic where Sherlock is jealous of Mycroft and Molly's friendship? Thanks!!!!

Tonight was the night. Sherlock frowned at the clock. Still another twenty-one minutes until Molly arrived. He’d been pacing for an hour after cleaning the flat and prepping for what would be their first date: takeaway Thai, an experiment on whatever spare parts she could snag from the morgue, and hopefully a goodnight kiss.

If Molly was agreeable, that is, when he asked her to stay. Which she would, of course.

Wouldn’t she?

Sherlock lowered himself into his chair, suddenly overcome with the doubts he’d been ignoring. What if she had gotten over him? How ironic that he discover he wanted to pursue a relationship with her was the day she decided to move on.

He closed his eyes and slipped into his Mind Palace to lock the doubt away.

* * *

‘Here you are, one liver and three toes,’ Molly announced as she entered the flat. She set the container on the oddly clean table when she saw that Sherlock was deep in his Mind Palace. A familiar wave of disappointment set in her gut.  _Invisible to him… again. Never important enough to remember._

Shrugging it off, she left, not noticing Sherlock’s subconscious awareness of her presence jerking him from his thoughts. She was just out on the street when the door burst open behind her and Sherlock nearly crashed into her in his rush.

‘Molly, wait, I wanted to…’ He trailed off when he saw the black car idling at the curb. Mycroft’s PA leaned against the side.

‘Doctor Hooper, Sherlock,’ she greeted them coolly, her eyes barely flicking from her phone.

‘Oh, what  _now_?’ Sherlock snapped impatiently.

Anthea smirked. ‘I’ve been sent to fetch you.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘If Mycroft wants to see me, he can bloody well get off his lazy arse, instead of sending you to collect me.’

The PA finally lifted her gaze. ‘It’s not you I’ve come for.’

Sherlock gaped dumbly as Molly stepped forward and hugged Anthea, the Ice Queen melting and smiling like she and Molly were friends.

‘He won’t say it, but he is sorry he had to cancel last night. The Greeks, you know,’ Anthea said cryptically as she pulled away and opened the door. ‘If you do not have plans for the evening, he wishes to cash in that rain check.’

Molly glanced at Sherlock, who was doing his best not to vibrate in rage. ‘Tonight would be… fine, just fine.’

As Molly slid into the backseat, Anthea flashed him a wicked smile over her shoulder before slipping inside after the pathologist, slamming the door on Sherlock’s gobsmacked face.

As the car pulled smoothly away from the curb and disappeared around the corner, Sherlock stood immobile, trying to understand what the bloody hell had just happened. His mind raced, bullet pointing the situation.

Mycroft planned this.

Mycroft, Big Brother in more ways than one, had known what Sherlock intended for the evening. And he had sent for Molly anyway.

Mycroft had previous evening plans with Molly, seemingly a regular occurrence, given her ease with being ‘kidnapped’ by Anthea, with whom she had clearly developed a deep friendship.

Mycroft was stealing Sherlock’s pathologist.

Mycroft was trying to steal Molly away from him.

Fury boiling over, Sherlock hailed the next cab that drove by. Mycroft was always trying to one-up him, and being the smarter of the two of them, had a distinct advantage. But in this case, Sherlock had the advantage. Molly already loved him. And he’d be damned if Mycroft stole her away.

* * *

The door to the study was open and Molly strode in, knowing her presence was welcome and expected. Mycroft sat in one of the pair of leather wingback chairs, his hands folded under his chin as he waited.

‘Molly, my dear, do come in,’ Mycroft greeted her with a lukewarm smile and gestured for her to take her usual seat across from him.

Molly grinned, knowing that a smile from Mycroft meant either certain death or high esteem. And she was still alive after three years of kidnappings and forced smiles, so she was inclined to believe she fell under the latter category.

‘I believe you earned the right to start, following last week’s battle.’

She tried not to smile too smugly as she took the plastic from his hand and leaned over the Operation game board.

‘So, problems with the Greeks?’ She asked, falling into the comfortable comradery that they had established over the years. Mycroft had kept her minimally informed of Sherlock’s whereabouts during his dismantling of Moriarty’s network. Molly hadn’t settled for the minimum and had inserted herself into his life, bribing him with homemade sweets and cakes until the Ice Man had capitulated and welcomed her into his nearly nonexistent social circle. She’d taken up Sherlock’s place at the Operation table during his time away, proving to be more than adept at the game. Mycroft had pouted for a week after their first game, accusing her of having an unfair advantage due to her profession. But instead of choosing a game in which they were more equally matched, he insisted on challenging her in Operation, sure that one day he would defeat her. He was, so far, unsuccessful.

They weren’t more than five minutes into their game and conversation when the door flew open, banging loudly against the wall as it bounced back, admitting a ruffled, disgruntled Consulting Detective.

‘Sherlock!’ Molly exclaimed, jumping to her feet. He strode over to them, eyeing Mycroft with a look of pure loathing.

‘Brother dear, how nice of you to join us.’

Sherlock’s nose visibly twitched at Mycroft’s amused tone.

‘ _Brother_ ,’ he spat. ‘I thought you were opposed to ‘goldfish’. Now, I find, you’re stealing mine.’

‘Goldfish?’ Molly looked between them in confusion.

Mycroft pushed himself from his chair with a sigh. ‘Perhaps I found that not all goldfish are... vacant. It so happens, I find this one somewhat stimulating.’

‘ _St-stimulating?!_ ’ Sherlock sputtered in disbelief. Realization was beginning to dawn on Molly. Though she didn’t understand their terminology in context, she understood that the term ‘goldfish’ was unflattering… and it was being applied to her. Hurt and anger bubbled up inside her. She wasn’t sure who she was most insulted by; Sherlock, for claiming her as his ‘goldfish’ or Mycroft for considering her ‘somewhat’ stimulating.

‘Yes,’ Mycroft continued with his usual cool demeanor, walking over to the bar and pouring himself a glass of Talisker. ‘You refused to acknowledge this particular goldfish’s intellect and company and I consider that a dreadful waste of her potential.’

‘I acknowledge that she is intelligent and bright! What makes you think I have not?’

‘Perhaps because you have disregarded her in every capacity save for a professional one. An asset, that’s all she is to you.’ He turned back and raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that not true?’

By now, Molly’s hands were clenched into fists and she was desperately wished Sherlock were three inches shorter… so she could properly throttle him.

‘She is more than an asset to me!’ Sherlock roared. ‘And if you hadn’t snatched her away from our date tonight, she would know that by now!’

Stunned silence followed his bellow. Molly stared at Sherlock in shock and Mycroft smirked smugly, while Sherlock was looking everywhere but at either of them.

‘Mycroft,’ he finally spoke. ‘Will you give us a minute? I believe I need to make something clear to Doctor Hooper.’

Sauntering toward the door, Mycroft quipped over his shoulder, ‘Please keep in mind that I will be in the next room.’

The door shut firmly behind him, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone.

‘So… not an asset, then?’ Molly broke the silence, her teasing tone softening the tension between them.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and shook his head, his curls bouncing in front of his face and his face neutral, but his eyes wide and hopeful as he looked at her.

Molly cleared her throat and clasped her hands in front of her, taking one step closer to him. ‘I should be angry that you called me a ‘goldfish’.’

‘And I should be angry that you are friends with Mycroft,’ he retorted petulantly, also stepping closer.

‘So I can’t have any male friends aside from you?’ She smirked and took another step.

Recognizing that he was potentially treading dangerous ground, Sherlock gulped and shook his head. ‘No, no, you can. Just not Mycroft,’ he wrinkled his nose as he said the name, distaste clear in his tone, taking another step.

Molly pursed her lips to the side and narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Too bad. If you want to be my friend, you have to accept that I will be friends with Mycroft. Besides, I’m beating him 237 to 0 in Operation.’ Sherlock’s eyes widened in glee. Molly smirked as she stepped up to him. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, but didn’t touch him. They were in a stalemate as to who would cave first, and both were determined for it to be the other. ‘And I can’t abandon a winning streak like that. Can I?’ She batted her eyes at him.

Sherlock nearly growled. She knew. She knew how he felt and she was playing with him. The sweet pathologist was turning him into a pile of possessive mush. And damn, if he didn’t love it.

‘Well, it’s not often that Mycroft is bested at something. I have to admit,’ he raised an eyebrow and casually slid an arm around her waist as he capitulated with a sigh, ‘it is a very attractive quality in you.’

‘So I can keep meeting with him?’ She stared up at him with wide, innocent eyes. But her hands were wicked, toying with his shirt buttons and slipping the button through the hole again and again. Sherlock nearly surrendered, his competitive need to win the only reason he wasn’t conceding defeat to her mischievous ways.

‘Only if I’m there to make sure he doesn’t make a play for my pathologist.’

‘ _Your_ pathologist? That’s quite friendly of you,’ Molly teased, knowing she had him wrapped around her finger. It was only fair, though; he’d had her wrapped around his finger since the day she met him. It was about time she was on equal footing. ‘So tonight was supposed to be a date?’

He swallowed nervously and nodded. ‘Experiments and takeaway. I didn’t count on Mycroft’s interference,’ he mumbled with a scowl.

‘Experiments and takeaway…’ Molly sighed contentedly. ‘That’s sounds perfect.’

Sherlock preened under her praise. But a moment later, his arms were empty as Molly pulled away.

‘But not tonight.’

‘Wh-what? Why not?!’ He demanded, stomping after her as she left the study.

Molly opened the next door in the hall and threw him an incredulous look over her shoulder. ‘I can’t possibly leave now that the game has already begun! That would be forfeiting!’

Sherlock chuckled as she pulled Mycroft out of the room and dragged him back to the study. The poor man looked defeated at having his underhanded plan to win thwarted. And as Molly proceeded to prove that she was still far superior to Mycroft in the game of Operation and not at all a humble winner, to Sherlock’s great surprise, Sherlock felt his chest fill with warmth and, dare he even think it…  _love?_

_Yep._ He smiled as Molly jumped up and did a, rather embarrassing, victory dance while Mycroft slumped in his seat with a frown etched deep in his face.  _Definitely love._


	66. Oops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: I know it's been done countless of times before but could you please write a fic where Sherlock and Molly get so drunk and have a one night stand which results in an unplanned pregnancy?

The Sun burned through Molly’s eyelids and she scrunched her face, groaning when the action worsened what had to be a Level 10 Hangover. She turned away from the window to burrow deeper into the pillow and sleep away the consequences of her mistake. But as her arm swung around, instead of landing on her fluffy comforter, her hand hit warm, hard body.

Instant panic overrode her headache and her eyes flew open in horror.

Staring back at her with an equally horrified expression was Sherlock Holmes. A very naked Sherlock Holmes.

Her hand spasmed against his side and she immediately pulled it away, her cheeks flushing burnt red as her eyes drifted down his bare chest to just above his waist where the sheet covered his lower body.

‘Morning.’ His gravelly, pain-laced voice shook her from her stunned state.

‘Morning,’ she whispered. She tugged the sheets closer to her chest, painfully aware of her lack of clothing. ‘Did we… um…?’

He sighed. ‘I believe so.’

The blush began warming her entire body in embarrassment. ‘I don’t… I don’t remember.’

‘Ah, we have that in common. The last memory I recorded in my Mind Palace was heading out to John and Mary’s anniversary party.’

‘Did we drink that much?’

His eyes drifted past her in thought. ‘It’s possible. Though, the more likely answer is that John and Mary played a prank on us with spiked drinks.’

_Note to self: Kill Mary. Slowly._ Molly covered her eyes and groaned, desperately wishing that when she opened her eyes she’d wake up from this weird mess of a dream.

Or at least remember the night before. After all, it wasn’t every morning she woke up after spending what felt like a very passionate night with the man she’d been in love with for seven years.

‘So…’ Sherlock drawled. ‘Breakfast?’

Molly peeked up at him through her fingers. ‘What?’

He quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘Isn’t that proper ‘morning after’ protocol? That we break the fast together?’

‘Erm… I suppose so.’

They stared at each other for a bit, before Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

He smirked. ‘Aren’t you going to get up?’

Molly frowned and hugged the covers tighter against her body. ‘Not before you!’

Sherlock’s eyes drifted lazily down her sheet-clad form and he smirked. ‘I hardly think that would be fair. After all, it is your flat and I am your guest.’

‘Guest, my arse,’ she muttered. Deciding that the best course of action would be to put some distance between them, she swung her legs over the side and tugged the sheet free, wrapping it tightly around her. She may have to get up first, but he most certainly was  _not_  going to get an eyeful!

Sherlock chuckled. ‘I hardly think that was a wise decision.’

Molly looked at him over her shoulder and shrieked, jerking her head back around so fast she thought it might snap. In taking the sheet, she had left him without any coverings. Red-faced, she scrambled to pull the rumpled coverlet from the foot of the bed and toss it over him.

‘Yes, this is a much more appropriate state of dress,’ he said dryly as he stood and wrapped the flowery bedspread around his waist.

‘It’ll have to do until I can find your clothes…’ she grumbled, looking around for anything that looked like it belonged to him.

Sherlock bent down to pick something up and cleared his throat with a smug smile. His white button-down shirt, one arm ripped nearly off and tears lining the front, hung from his finger. ‘It seems your timid personality hides quite the minx.’

Molly squeaked and fled the room, nearly tripping over her sheet.  _Oh, God, this has to be some sort of nightmare!_

Sherlock shuffled along behind her. ‘Molly?’

She turned, trying to hide her utter humiliation from his all-knowing eyes. Pulling the sheet tight around her, she huddled in on herself and tried to keep her voice from wobbling. ‘Can we j-just forget this ever happened?’

‘Why?’ A line appeared between his eyes and, had she not been so wrapped up in her embarrassment, Molly would have sworn she heard hurt in his tone.

She swallowed loudly and took a step back, looking down at the floor between them. ‘I-I-I don’t t-think…. Nobody h-has to know, I w-won’t tell.’

‘Ah. I see.’

Molly glanced up to see the line between his brows disappear and his well-practiced mask of indifference fall over his face.

‘If that is your wish, I shall gather the remnants of my clothes and be on my way.’ He turned back to the bedroom.

For three seconds, Molly stood frozen, sure her hungover mind was playing tricks on her. But for that brief second before the mask fell into place, she swore he looked like a little boy, hurt and lost. She may have imagined it… but was she really going to take the risk that she hadn’t?

Lunging forward, she reached out to grab his arm. Unfortunately, her foot got tangled in the sheet and, instead of grabbing his arm and turning him around, she went tumbling into him, knocking them both to the floor. Hindered by the hangover, Sherlock’s reflexes weren’t quite what they should have been, and the breath was knocked out of him as Molly landed on his back.

‘Oh, my god, Sherlock!’ She scrambled off of him and helped him turn over. ‘I’m so sorry, are you okay?!’

Wheezing and coughing, he glared up at her and touched his, now very red, nose, from where it had been smashed into the floor.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated, her hands flying over his face to check for other injuries.

‘Molly,’ he rasped. ‘I was already leaving, there was no need to attack me.’

Her eyes widened. ‘I-I wasn’t! I was…’ She trailed off, noticing his gaze was fixed below her face. She glanced down to see that her sheet was coming undone around her. She fumbled to close it with a bashful smile. ‘I was trying to get you to stay,’ she finished quietly, brushing her unkempt hair behind her ear.

He stared at her, buffering for a moment.

‘Do you want to stay?’ She asked shyly.

He smiled, a faint gleam in his eye, and leaned up, his hand cupping her neck as his lips met hers in a passionate kiss.

* * *

**9 Months Later**

‘This is all your fault, John Hamish Watson!’

Sherlock smirked despite the pain in his hand as Molly bellowed at the good Doctor. When she squeezed it impossibly hard, he was suddenly gripped with horror at the thought of her breaking his hand and him not being able to play the lullaby he’d composed for their son.

‘You will  _never_ see your godchild, so help me  _Gooooood_!’ She screamed the last word as a contraction hit.

‘Yes, Mrs Holmes,’ John droned, his mind in doctor mode, as he sat at her feet. Sherlock envied his cool demeanor. Since Molly’s labor began, he’d been a right mess. The only reason they  _made_ it to the hospital was because John happened to be at Baker Street when Molly’s water broke and he had taken command of the situation.

When the fourth occupant of the room finally arrived, the chaos immediately vanished as Molly forgot all about her threats. She gazed down in awe of the littlest Holmes, cleaned and swaddled in her arms. Their baby’s head was covered in a thin layer of black hair and his eyes, as colorful as his father’s, were wide and taking in the new world around him.

‘We did that.’ Sherlock sat beside her on the bed, his body curled around them, as he stared down in wonder at their son. John had left to give them a moment of privacy.

‘Yes, we did.’ Molly laughed lightly. ‘John and Mary certainly played a large part, though. Had they not gotten us so completely smashed, we wouldn’t have forgotten to use protection.’

Sherlock pouted and nudged his pinky against the baby’s fist, his heart swelling when the tiny hand wrapped around his finger. ‘And they’ll never let us forget it, will they, John?’


	67. Boys Beware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: The Holmes family go on holiday and their eldest daughter gets some unwanted attention from a group of boys. Sherlock gets protective of his little girl :3

‘Whoa, check out the babe in the blue bikini!’ Sean whistled, his friends following his line of sight to see a stunning girl walking down the sand toward the beach. Her black curls tumbled freely around her shoulders, bouncing as she very nearly strutted closer, and a sarong was wrapped around her waist, showing a hint of slender legs with each step.

Sucking in his stomach slightly to accentuate his somewhat-defined abs, Sean set off to intercept her. His friends let out hoots and hollers behind him, but he only let it boost his determination.

‘Hey, beautiful.’ He slid his hand through his blonde locks as he stepped across her path. She stopped and dipped her head, looking up at him over her sunglasses. He felt his heart skip at the brilliant array of colors in her eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

She quirked a well-defined eyebrow and spoke in a disinterested British accent. ‘Not interested.’

He scoffed. ‘What? Why not?’

Sighing, she slid her sunglasses atop her head, sending her curls into disarray around her face. Sean thrust out his chest and stepped into her space, hoping to distract her with his physique, but instead of seeing her surprisingly defined cheekbones flush with delight, she rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips.

‘You’re 19 and living at home with no desire for more than a menial labor job, skiving off your parents, your girlfriend left you because you cheated on her with her sister, and your swim trunks are on backwards. None of which interest me in getting to know you.’

She slid her sunglasses back over her eyes and stepped past him, calling over her shoulder, ‘Now if I were you, I’d scuttle off before my father starts on the warpath.’

Humiliated, Sean turned around to hustle back to his friends and came face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

‘Too late,’ the man growled, glaring at him and almost vibrating with rage. Sean looked desperately around for an escape. Why, oh God,  _why_ , did she have to be the daughter of the famous detective?!

‘Oh, Sherlock, leave the boy alone! Georgina can obviously take care of herself,’ a petite brunette called out, a mini-version of the man before him in her arms.

The detective hesitated for a moment while Sean quaked in his shadow. A slow, evil smile spread across Sherlock’s face and his eyes narrowed into slits as he said, ‘She can indeed. A shame, though, that you weren’t able to witness her expert skills in Baritsu. The last boy to accost her still doesn’t have full range of motion in his nether regions.’

Backpedaling, Sean nearly fell on his bum in his haste to run away, the detective’s cackling laugh following him.


	68. The Doctor and his Gun-Slinging Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little John and Mary love. :)

Mary snuggled into John’s side, his arm curled around her. The light from the telly flickered in the dark room and she felt her eyes drifting shut, her body relaxing into her husband’s.

‘How can you possibly be sleeping?’ John asked in bewilderment, pulling her right from the edge of sleep.

She turned her face into his chest and burrowed deeper into his embrace. ‘You take care of a wailing three-month old whose Consulting Godfather keeps sneaking in to poke and prod at her in experimentation all day. She’s rather unamused by him.’

‘Yeah,’ he agreed half-heartedly. ‘But it’s Doctor Who!’

‘Yes, love, a national treasure. Now shhhh, let me rest and go back to your gallivanting Doctor.’

He chuckled, the sound reverberating through her body. ‘But it’s a River Song episode! Isn’t she your favorite? She’s definitely mine, there’s just something about her…’

Mary smirked. ‘Oh? Should I be jealous?’

‘N-no!’ He stammered, tightening his grip on her. ‘She’s fictional, after all… But you have to admit, she is rather… alluring. D-don’t you think?’

‘A beautiful, gun-slinging, flirtatious blonde who is an expert marksman and has a shady past?’ She sat up to press a firm kiss to his pouting mouth. ‘Mmmm, I can definitely relate,’ she teased then made to move away.

John groaned in disappointment and reached out to pull her back. Giggling, she conceded and they settled into a lazy kiss, the telly completely forgotten for some time.

Breathless and dazed, they finally broke apart. Mary smiled smugly at John’s ruffled hair and red-kissed lips as she slipped under his arm.

‘Not to mention,’ she commented as the show began to wind down, lazily toying with the buttons of his shirt, ‘we both have a thing for Doctors with strange fashion sense who thrive on the thrill of adventure.’

‘Oi!’ He exclaimed in offense. ‘Don’t knock my jumpers!’


	69. Insufferable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Sherlolly Uni!lock that’s been sitting in my folder for quite some time. Enjoy, my dears!

Up until today, Sherlock had found Uni life mind-numbingly dull.

But as he flipped the mysterious flash drive through his fingers, he grinned. He had found it on the lab bench during his weekly trek into the chemistry lab between mindless seminars taught by incompetent professors. God forbid he miss one more class and face expulsion, earning the full force of Mummy’s wrath.

Normally, the bright yellow flash drive would not have intrigued him and he would have left it be, but the anatomically correct heart and skull carved into the fine metal caught his eye. And his interest.

There was no other indication to whom it belonged, so he plugged it into his laptop. A tiny bubble popped up, prompting him to enter the password.

A safeguard.  _Intriguing._  He quirked his brow, begrudgingly impressed with the mysterious person’s intelligence. Most Uni students were brazen with their personal information, letting their unprotected drives dangle temptingly to hackers and thieves. Not so this person.

He steepled his hands under his chin and his grin deepened. Now this was a mystery worth solving.

* * *

‘Oh, my God! It’s not here!’ Molly frantically tore through her bag, looking for that spot of sunshine that tended to drop to the very bottom. Her flash drive, the one holding the only copy of her thesis, was missing, and with every passing second she cursed herself for not having a backup for her backup. But, to be fair, how was she supposed to know that the very day her laptop crashed was the day she would be careless enough to lose her flash drive?!

‘Did you leave it in the library?’ Her flatmate called from across the room. Molly glanced up to see Mary digging through the sofa cushions, pulling out loose change, several lip balms, and the beanie Molly had lost five months ago. But no flash drive.

‘No, no, no, I had it this afternoon… when I was in the lab!’ Molly shrieked in triumph and nearly tripped out the door in her haste, Mary’s fond laughter following her.

She sprinted across campus, barreling through packs of students and calling out apologies over her shoulder. Her thesis was due the next morning and she hadn’t even finished the final revisions, fear of missing the deadline spurring her on faster.

In fact, she was running too fast. As she took the steps to the science building two at a time, she reached out just as the door was flung open, sending her backpedaling with a startled cry. Before she could lose her balance entirely and fall to the cement, an arm shot out and wrapped around her back like an iron band, jerking her up against a solid chest.

A solid,  _fit_  chest.

Startled, she slowly raised her gaze up the well-defined chest outlined in a near-button-bursting aubergine shirt to the chiseled chin and the cheekbones that would make a Greek God jealous before finally staring into the beautiful, piercing eyes of the boy who caught her. Her hands had automatically reached out to steady her and landed on his shoulders. She could feel the warmth emanating from him under her fingertips. She blinked repeatedly, feeling her already flushed cheeks darken under his intense stare. Her mouth gaped, but she couldn’t form any words.

Suddenly, he smirked and released her.

‘It is far better to be late than to triple your chances at suffering an ill-timed death because you are in a panicked rush.’ His rumbling baritone would have completely melted her bones had it not been dripping with disdain as he raked his sharp gaze over her rumpled appearance derisively. ‘Although, that might be a point in favor of natural selection.’

Molly flushed in humiliation and wrenched out of his hold. She felt tears sting her eyes, but she would not give this insensitive jerk the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Firmly straightening the hem of her jumper, she glared up at him. ‘Were everyone to look at the world as you apparently do, humans would be a society of inbred, narcissistic wankers suffering from delusions of self-perfection, who would never believe anyone good enough, thus dying as virgins and ending the human race once and for all.’

The boy blinked rapidly, his mouth opening slightly in surprise.

‘Now,’ Molly huffed and tilted her chin up, ‘if you’ll excuse me, I happen to be here for a purpose other than putting your arrogant arse in its rightful place.’

Grateful that he couldn’t see or hear her thundering heart, Molly stalked past him and into the building.

* * *

_What in the bloody Hell just happened?_

Sherlock broke out of his stupor and turned around just in time to see the doors close behind the girl. Disgusted with his stupefied behavior, he slammed his mouth shut and strode back inside. Nobody got the last word with him, especially not a plain, clumsy girl with bright eyes that sparkled with brilliance and anger…

He shook his head rapidly. No, no, no! There was nothing about her that was in any way remarkable. Even as he thought it, a voice that sounded a lot like John laughed in the far corner of his Mind Palace.

He followed the girl back toward the labs, her brown ponytail swaying across her back as she rushed on. Eventually, she turned into the lab he had just vacated.

_The drive… it can’t possibly be hers!_

He hesitated for just a moment before bursting in behind her, his deductions confirmed as she scoured the lab bench he had been sitting at, mumbling curses under her breath as she searched for something. He appreciated the view for a moment before he pulled out his collateral.

‘Looking for something?’ He chuckled as she jerked around in surprise, her eyes widening at the yellow drive dangling from his fingers. Her expression darkened and stalked toward him, reaching out to grab the drive, but he lifted his hand high above her petite head.

‘Give me that!’ She stomped her foot, an adorable scowl on her face.

_Wait, adorable?_

Sherlock sneered at his inward thoughts, but begrudgingly admitted that the furrow in her brow was quite… endearing. And her thin lips were rather tempting when pursed in a pout.

‘I think not.’ He faked a sigh and quirked an eyebrow at her.

She jumped up desperately, trying to reach her drive, but her fingers didn’t come past his raised elbow. She was like a spitting kitten as she alternated between reaching for the drive and glaring at him with brown, doe eyes.

‘Give it back!’ She barked, her eyes flashing dangerously. He felt his heart drop somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach and he tried to reign in the ridiculous desire to kiss the spitfire in front of him.

‘How do I know it’s yours?’

She planted her hands on her hips, clearly trying to determine whether to go along with him or knee him in the groin. He subtly shifted sideways, just in case she was more violent than he initially deduced.

With a huff, she whirled around and booted up one of the lap computers. ‘My drive is password protected. Plug it in and I’ll prove it’s mine.’

He slid the USB into the slot and waited for it to boot up.

‘I’m only going along with this because I don’t have time to waste,’ she snapped, her arms crossed. Sherlock smirked and watched as she leaned over to type her password into the bubble that popped up.  _TobyKins221._  Toby was most likely a pet. He glanced at her trouser legs. Cat. Definitely.

‘There, happy?’ She gestured at the screen, the window showing the contents of the drive, organized and clearly coded carefully, something that  _he_ would have been proud of. She ejected the drive and yanked it form the port, her ponytail whipping his shoulder as she turned and stalked from the room.

_Happy?_  He watched the door shut behind her. A smile spread across his face and he started to walk after her.  _Interestingly enough… yes._

* * *

‘Pompous prat!’ Molly whispered to herself angrily as she stomped down the hall. ‘Insufferable git!’

Fuming, she straight-armed her way out the door into the late afternoon sun. She glanced behind her and wished she hadn’t. The boy was following her at a lazy pace, his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face. She ignored the skip of her heart at the half-smile that threatened to make her knees weak and lifted her chin haughtily as she made her way across campus.

‘I never did get your name.’

Molly ignored him as she skirted a group of students.

‘I can deduce many things. But a name, I cannot,’ he drawled, his long legs permitting him to easily catch up to her. She quickened her steps, out of breath and angry, her fury deepening in resentment at the ease at which he kept pace with her.

‘Pathology student, finishing her doctorate this term, two years earlier than most, meaning you are above average intelligence, single with no prospects currently, only child with no living parents… shall I continue?’

Coming to a skidding halt, Molly turned on him, embarrassment and anger rising off her in waves, overwhelming her awe at his deductions. ‘No. No you shall not! I do not want to listen to you, I don’t want to talk to you, I do not want you to follow me, and I  _do not want to see you ever again!_ ’

To her frustration (and begrudgingly, her pleasure), he didn’t back down. If anything, his smug smirk deepened and he raked his gaze over her body once more, though in a much more pleasing manner than before.

‘But you don’t really mean that,’ he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his black curls brushing against her cheek.

Her breath hitched in her throat and she stepped back unsteadily. Narrowing her eyes at him, she opened her mouth to tell him off, when Mary’s voice interrupted them.

‘Molly! Molly, did you find it?’ The blonde jogged up to them, glancing between Molly’s red face and the boy’s dilated pupils as he looked at her flatmate. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ the boy nodded at her in introduction. Molly swallowed when he looked back at her, the intensity in his eyes making her want to drag him down for a snog. He chuckled, the deep rumble sending her heart into skitters, as though he could read her thoughts. And he probably could.

‘Did I interrupt something?’ Mary asked cheekily. Molly flushed a deeper red and began to stammer out ‘no’s and ‘he was just leaving’s.

Sherlock cut her off by suddenly leaning down and pressing a firm kiss to her lips. Molly sucked in her breath, her eyes wide as she watched him straighten up and wink at her. His lips, seemingly in a perfect smirk, twitched when her gaze drifted down.

‘Dinner. Angelo’s. 7:00 tomorrow,’ he said huskily, his tone brooking no argument, and walked away. Beside her, Mary was practically jumping, tiny squeaks of delight escaping her gaping mouth.

It took two seconds for Molly to realize what had just happened and she called after him, ‘Hey, wait, no! Th-that’s not… Y-y-you utter cad! I’m not going out with you!’

Sherlock looked at her over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows, not breaking stride, and winked cheekily as he clicked his tongue.

‘Insufferable prat!’ Molly hissed and stomped back to her flat, a giddy Mary on her heels. She promised herself she wasn’t going to so much as  _speak_ to that boy again…

She peeked out of the corner of her eye at his retreating figure and gripped her flash drive tighter, a begrudging smile on her face as she remembered how it flipped through his fingers.

…then again, promises were made to be broken.


	70. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Mark Schultz’s ‘Letters From War.’ Fair warning, listen and cry. But I thought the idea would make for a nice, angsty Sherlolly drabble.

**December 1939**

The train’s whistle pierced the air and the conductor called for the dawdling passengers to finally board. Sherlock ignored the order, holding his wife tightly as they stood on the platform.

‘I have to go,’ he whispered into her hair, but didn’t move to relinquish his iron-clad hold on her. Molly nodded against his chest, the coarse fabric of his army coat rubbing her cheek, wiping away the evidence of her tears.

‘Remember,’ he said, finally pulling back to cup her cheeks, staring down at her intensely. ‘ _You_ are what I am fighting for. And I will come back, I promise.’

She pulled him down by the lapels of his coat and pressed a firm, but watery kiss to his lips. ‘You’d better.’

Reluctantly, he stepped back, her arms falling to her side. He picked up his sack and shrugged it over his shoulder, straightening his cap and giving her a cheeky wink.

She smiled through her tears. ‘I’ll write you every day.’

He grinned back. ‘You’d better.’

* * *

**February 1940**

Around him in the barracks, men were shouting and laughing, trying to forget the horror that gripped them outside the metal doors. In the bunk above him, John was furiously scribbling a note to his own wife. Sherlock lay on his back, re-reading the letter Molly had sent him by the light of the flickering oil lamp.

‘…and Mrs Hudson sends her love. She’d write, but her hand, you know. She finally threw out the last of your experiments I smuggled out here with us. A shame you weren’t here to be properly told off, and I had to bear the brunt of her disgust in your stead. Be grateful I love you enough to put up with this.’

He smiled at the thought of Mrs Hudson puttering around her as Molly wrote to him, his wife laughing at the elder woman’s comments.

She went on to tell him about her day in the shop, providing cheap meals for the women and children that had also escaped the London Blitz. He felt his heart burst in pride at her generosity and endless optimism amidst the terror around her.

At the end, as she’d done in every letter since he left, she wrote: ‘Always remember, my beloved, you are good and you are brave. Make it home. Make it safe.’

He closed his eyes and held the letter to his chest, breathing ‘I promise.’

* * *

**May 1941**

Molly brushed her flour-covered hands on her apron, eyeing the clock. Another ten minutes before the first batch of bread loaves would be finished.

She sighed and undid the apron, hanging it on the hook, and made her way to the front of the shop. Mrs Hudson smiled at her from her chair, a bag of sewing at her feet. Unable to do much in the way of baking, Mrs Hudson refused to let her ailment prevent her from helping and took up the mantle of sewing up the holes in the children’s clothing, becoming like a grandmother to them.

‘Has the post arrived?’ Molly asked.

‘On the counter, love.’

Grabbing the small pile, Molly flipped through the letters, looking for the familiar slant of her husband’s hand. Her hope died with each letter and she dropped them back to the counter, the sinking feeling in her chest deepening. It had been three weeks since Sherlock had written. He often went days or even a week without sending her a letter, but something must be wrong for her not to have heard from him for such a long stretch. Still, she wrote him every day, sending her letters to his company and praying that he was alive to receive them.

The small bell over the door jingled and she turned from her melancholy thoughts to see Mary Watson standing in the door, a letter in her hand.

‘Mary?’ Molly stepped toward the blonde, wary of the sadness in her eyes. Mary swallowed thickly, then held out an envelope to her, tear tracks marked her cheeks and her face, usually rosy with cheerfulness, was pale white.

‘It’s from John. He enclosed it with my letter.’

Molly frowned in confusion and took the letter. Her name was written across the front in the doctor’s running scrawl. She ripped open the seal and unfolded the paper.

 

> Dear Molly,
> 
> I don’t know how to write this. I’ve started it a hundred times, but cannot bring myself to finish. I’ve sent this with Mary, knowing you will need her near, as she will need you.
> 
> Three weeks ago, our unit was tasked with a simple operation; to clear out a forest of possible enemy soldiers and prepare it for the front to move forward. We had no indication of an ambush.
> 
> Sherlock was my partner, beside me, as they jumped out at us. I was immediately shot in the shoulder and leg, becoming unable to defend myself or retreat to safety. As many times as I shouted at him to leave me and get to safety, he always was a stubborn git, God love him, he hauled me over his shoulder and carried me back to the trenches.
> 
> He left me there, half-conscious, and went back to fight. I woke up in the barrack’s hospital three days ago and found out we were successful in driving back their forces. But not without consequence.
> 
> I am so sorry, Molly. Sherlock was captured.
> 
> All we have is hope. Hope and faith that he is alive.
> 
> May God forgive me if our hope is in vain.
> 
> John

The world faded away as Molly stared at the words on the page, the black ink stark and final against the white paper. She didn’t even realize she was crying until drops stained the paper, blurring the ink together.

‘Molly?’

She finally glanced up to see Mrs Hudson and Mary watching her in concern. Mary reached out and pulled her into a sympathetic embrace. John had probably told her the same in his letter to her. Unable to let herself fall into hysteria, Molly didn’t return the hug.

‘Excuse me,’ she whispered shakily, pulling away and fleeing to her room.

She dropped into the chair by her desk, staring out the window as John’s words replayed a vivid movie of her husband’s capture in her mind. Slowly, her numbed shock faded as horror and despair gripped her tightly. With a pained gasp, she buried her head in her hands and let her cries loose, sobs tearing from her throat, her chest tight as her body shook with each cry.

She fell across her desk, her head resting in the crook of her arm and her cries subsiding to a steady flow of tears. By the time she raised her red-rimmed, puffy eyes, the sun was setting. She could hear Mary and Mrs Hudson puttering around downstairs, no doubt finishing the baking and waiting for her to come down.

_Not yet._  She needed to be alone.

Her gaze drifted from John’s letter to her blank stationary. An idea nudged the corner of her mind and she set her chin in a determined tilt.

Turning up the oil lamp in the darkening room, she pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began a new letter to her husband, writing as if nothing had changed.

And at the end, she wrote ‘Always remember, my beloved, you are good and you are brave. Make it home. Make it safe.’

But never before had she prayed so hard for it to be true.

* * *

**September 1942**

Molly wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, the crisp autumn weather chilling her as she walked down the road. Mrs Hudson had shooed her out of the shop for the day with a smile and a warning not to come back until Molly also had a smile on her face. A real smile.

The leaves crunched under her feet as she walked along. It was hard to smile these days. Almost 15 months since she’d last heard a word about her husband. She was being strong, her deeply melancholy days few and far between, but the sadness still clung to her. With each letter she wrote to him, a bit of her sorrow faded for a time. Enough for her to power through each day, enough for her to happy and be the one the children came to for baked treats when they missed their fathers, enough for her to be the strong one.

The sun shone down through the trees and she felt a small smile sneak out at the beauty around her. She swung the small basket of apples she’d picked, already planning on baking a nice apple pie for Mary and Mrs Hudson that afternoon.

She rounded the bend back into the small town. A couple children raced past her, chasing a runaway puppy.

‘Good morning, Miss Molly!’ They shouted as ran by.

She smiled fondly at them, before resuming her walk. She turned the street corner and froze. At the curb outside the shop, a black town car idled. Her brother-in-law leaned against the car, a cigarette in his mouth.

Her heart stopped. If he was here, he must have heard something about Sherlock. ‘Mycroft?’

He glanced up and straightened when he saw her at the end of the street. ‘Molly.’

‘Is… is he…?’ She couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud, it would seem so final that way.

He blanched and took a step toward her. Whatever he was about to say died on his tongue when the door to the shop opened and a man strode out. His black curls hung freshly cut around his face and the familiar, long coat hung a bit bigger on his frame. But when he turned toward her, it was the life in his eyes that shocked her heart back into beating.

‘Sherlock,’ she breathed. The basket fell from her fingers, apples rolling and bouncing across the street. She swayed on her feet, unable to believe what she was seeing.

A grin broke across his haggard face and he ran toward her, catching her fainting frame and burying his face in her neck. She breathed in deeply of the clean soap smell and the faint hint of cigarette smoke, but underneath it all, the familiar, comforting scent of  _him_.

He lifted her off her feet as she let her tears soak his collar, her fingers gripping the back of his coat with an iron hold. He pressed tiny kisses along her neck and jawline, uncaring of propriety. 

‘You’re home. You’re alive,’ she whispered breathlessly.

He set her down slowly, never tearing his eyes away from hers. From his pocket, he pulled a thick stack of letters. She looked down and felt her heart burst as she recognized her handwriting across the top. Some of the letters were brand new, just opened, and others yellowed and worn from constant attention.

‘I’m just following orders from all of your letters, my beloved.’ He smiled before kissing her with a passion he’d put on hold for two years.


	71. Tattle Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffly fic written in the midst of a fever, so please forgive any mistakes and OOC-ness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments, kudos, and love on each story!

The holiday had been going well up to this point. It was Molly’s first Christmas with Sherlock’s family and, up to now, it had been wonderfully normal. Christmas Eve afternoon found Molly and Anthea sitting on either side of Mummy Holmes, sipping hot cocoa and gleefully listening to her regale them with delightful stories about their respective significant others, photo albums stacked around them. Sherlock and Mycroft sat slumped in the chairs across from them, each sporting red spots on their hands from Mummy’s slaps when they tried to wrest away the photo books.  

‘Oh, how sweet!’ Molly cooed over 8-year-old Sherlock, his curls unruly and a patch over one eye as he brandished a plastic pirate’s cutlass. 

Anthea smiled at the chubby 15-year-old Mycroft holding Sherlock’s other hand and wearing a pilot outfit and an expression that clearly showed his deep hatred of the ridiculous Halloween tradition of fancy dress. ‘This might explain his disdain for pilots,’ she teased.

Sherlock snorted.

‘Must we suffer through this agony?’ Mycroft whined, rubbing his forehead. ‘It was bad enough going through the torture of Halloween once, must we relive it?’

‘You’re just sore because you didn’t get as much candy as me,’ Sherlock said with a smirk. ‘It pays to be adorable.’

Mycroft sat up and glared at Sherlock. ‘As I recall, I got just as much candy, but most of it was stolen by a certain pesky pirate the next day.’

‘I most certainly did no such thing,’ Sherlock refuted in offense.

‘Did so! You picked the lock on my bedroom door and took all the good pieces!’

Sherlock crossed his arms. ‘Fine, so what if I did? Maybe I was trying to help you with your diet.’

‘As if,’ Mycroft spat. ‘You would stash cupcakes and biscuits all over my room trying to  _sabotage_  my diet!’

‘Sherlock!’ Mummy gasped.

‘He still does it, too,’ Mycroft continued, on a roll. ‘He knows when I’m doing well and he’ll have chocolate cake delivered to my office. And he once threatened to post photos of me pre-weight loss on John’s blog if I didn’t get him unlimited morgue access.’

‘Sherlock!’ Now Molly turned to him in surprised indignation.

‘W-w-w-well,’ Sherlock stammered under everyone’s frowning glare and Mycroft’s gloating smile. Angry jumped to his feet and, turning to his mother, shouted, ‘Well, Mycroft was the one who stole the top tier of your 50th wedding anniversary cake!’

‘Mycroft!’ Mummy frowned.

Mycroft’s mouth fell open and he jumped to his feet, shouting childishly. ‘Well, Sherlock and Molly got married at the register’s office last week!’

Mummy gasped, her hand flying to her chest. ‘Without your family?!’

Sherlock’s eyes widened in horror and he pointed a finger accusingly at Mycroft. ‘Well, Mycroft and Anthea got married on a business trip to Las Vegas last month!’

Mycroft gaped in anger. ‘W-w-well, Molly’s pregnant!’

‘So is Anthea!’

Stunned silence descended upon the group as Mummy gaped between the four of them, her overwhelming joy robbing her of words, and Papa patted his sons’ back proudly. Realizing that they had perhaps gotten a bit carried away with tattling on each other, Sherlock and Mycroft looked sheepishly at their wives.

Flushed in embarrassment, Molly leaned toward Anthea and whispered, ‘Did you know you were pregnant?’

Wide-eyed, Anthea shook her head. ‘You?’

‘Nope.’


	72. The Light to His Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the lovely lais89 on FF: (a line from Broadchurch Series 2) 'You go about your life thinking you're complete, then you meet someone and realise you're only half of something. People laugh about it. 'Have you met my other half?' Then when you meet that person... you know it's true. You're only really whole when you're with each other. But it never ends well, does it?...Love. It makes you strong and...then it pulls you down. However it happens...one half always loses the other.'

He had always seen her. Every twinkling of her eye, the subtly confident way she carried herself, the shy duck of her head and the tilt of her mouth when she laughed at herself, the compassion she showed, the unending forgiveness she bestowed, the love she showered over everyone she met… over him.

But he hadn't believed it, convinced it was all a smokescreen. And he had spent so much time trying to get her to break that mask, to crack the façade of goodness and forgiveness, which he hadn't realized was, unbelievably, exactly as it appeared until it was almost too late.

She was the strongest person he knew. She hid behind no mask and wore her heart, if he were feeling particularly poetic, on her sleeve. Constant, a ray of sunshine and sweet morbidity, and unwavering in her faith in him, she stood firm and pulled him from the dangerous paths that drew him near. She was the best part of him, the solid, steadfast beating of his heart, the light that balanced his darkness.

He brought her limp hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to her fingertips, letting the unfamiliar feelings of relief and joy consume him, knowing that that light wasn't extinguished. That Moriarty had not succeeded in burning his heart out. The heart he hadn't known he had until suddenly it was taken from him. And no longer would he let his fears and doubts keep him from her side or her from his heart.

Not before he had the chance to tell her, a chance to spend a lifetime showing her, that she was all that he needed and everything he wanted. They balanced each other perfectly and without her, he would stumble, falling back into the pits of addiction and hopelessness. He needed her to be his guiding hand, the one who made him want to fight his demons, the one who birthed in his very soul a desire to be more than he thought he could be.

He needed to be all that for her, too. He wanted to inspire and encourage her, be the one she came to for anything, the one she relied on when she didn't want to be strong, the one who complemented her in every way.

The heartrate monitor beeped rhythmically as he watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. With each breath, he prayed another would follow. He had already spent three days believing her to be gone forever, a victim of a resurrected psychopath, but she proved herself stronger than he had already believed her to be, fighting back with a ferocity that spoke of an inner strength far beyond his own. He knew he didn't have the strength to face the possibility of a future without her again.

Brushing her hair away from her sleeping face, he felt his heart tumble in his chest. He wouldn't waste another minute dwelling on the fear of losing her. Not when he'd been given a second chance to show her just how perfectly she completed him.


	73. Jumping to the Wrong Deductions

Sherlock trailed behind them for two blocks, wearing an old hoodie and slipping into the shadows, lest one of them turn around and catch a glimpse of their tail. The mark, male in his late thirties, slung his arm over Molly’s shoulders and pulled her close. Her laughter carried behind her in the evening air.

Sherlock scowled and quickened his pace. He stopped half a block behind them when they turned into the cinema booth to buy tickets.

Molly jumped on her toes in excitement as her date paid the teller, taking her ticket and eagerly rushing into the building. Her date chuckled at her exuberance and followed her at a slower pace.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Sherlock approached the teller and, paying with John’s card (he’d have to give that back sometime), snatched his ticket from the boy’s hand and straight-armed his way into the building.

The mark was leading Molly towards the theater room, one arm around her shoulder, the other holding an excessively large bucket of buttery popcorn and a box of sweets. She giggled at something he said and took a sip of her soda.

His brows nearly touching, he stalked after them, shoving his ticket at the attendant and slipping into the back row. Molly and the man were sitting about halfway down the aisle, the seats not quite a quarter-filled. Slumping in his seat, Sherlock steadfastly glared at the backs of their heads as the lights dimmed and the trailers began.

For sixty-five minutes, he ignored the ridiculous monstrosity playing on the large screen. Hard to do, when the plot was so fantastical and the acting… my  _god_ , John was a better actor than that man.

The movie was more than half over when the mark stood and shuffled out of the row, an empty popcorn bucket in his hand. Sherlock gave him a quick once-over as he passed in the dark theater. A smile, partly from the film and partly from his company, lit the man’s face. Sherlock estimated he had a full four minutes while the man hit the loo and got a refill.

Quickly, the detective slid out of his seat and took the man’s seat next to Molly. 

She glanced up, a half-smile on her face. ‘I thought you were getting some pop-’ Her whisper cut off when she realized who was sitting next to her. ‘Sherlock!’ She hissed, glancing around in confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘He’s married,’ Sherlock said dryly, plucking the box of candy from her lap and tossing back a few chocolate covered treats.

‘Wh-what?’ Molly stammered, snatching the box back from him.

‘Your date, he’s married. Really, Molly, I thought you were intelligent.’

Behind them, someone shushed them loudly.

Molly shot an apologetic glance backward before turning a deadly glare on the detective. ‘I  _know_  he’s married,’ she hissed. ‘What I don’t know is why it’s any concern of yours.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I never would have thought you would be the ‘other woman’ type.’

‘I’m  _not_ ,’ she snapped.

‘ _Sssshhhhh_!’

‘You may want to inform him of that fact before you feel obliged to ‘put out’. You really are too much of a people-pleaser.’

Unfortunately for the ever-observant genius, he didn’t pick up on the rising fury of the woman beside him. One second he was staring at her gaping expression, the next he was sputtering in surprise as she stood and dumped the remaining half of her soda over his head.

‘Molly!’ He sputtered, bits of ice sliding down his back.

He wiped the soda from his eyes, only to see her ponytail swishing as she stalked from the theater. He scrambled after her, much to the relief of those around him. He burst into the hallway and looked around, running after the pathologist.

‘Molly?’ Her date met her, full popcorn bucket in his hand, and a concerned look on his face as he took in the wet, hoodie-clad man chasing the furious woman.

‘Let’s go, Charlie.’ She grabbed his arm and whirled him around as she walked past, dragging the bemused man behind her.

‘Molly, what’s going on?’ The man stumbled as he tried to understand what was going on.

‘Molly!’ Sherlock barked, catching up as they exited to the street and sliding around to face them. Molly stopped before she ran into him, her brown eyes brimming with furious tears. ‘Let me… that was uncalled for, I apologize.’

The man looked between the two of them. ‘Molly, who is this?’

‘A complete and utter pompous prat, that’s who!’ Molly stomped her foot childishly. Sherlock stepped back slightly. Given her previous soda attack, he wouldn’t put it past her to go for his toes in her anger.

To Sherlock’s surprise, Charlie’s brow smoothed over. He beamed and extended his hand in greeting. ‘Ah, Sherlock Holmes, then, a pleasure to finally meet you! Molly talks about you all the time.’

Confusion was not a good feeling for the all-knowing detective. He quirked a disdainful eye down at the hand and purposefully twitched his nose in derision. ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the…  _pleasure_ ,’ he sneered, ‘of hearing about you. Perhaps Molly is not quite as fond of you as you’d like to believe.’

Charlie retracted his hand with a shrug, Sherlock’s words seemingly not penetrating his thick skull. ‘Oh, I’d say my Molls is fond of me. Wouldn’t you say, Squeakers?’ He hooked his arm around her neck and pulled her close.

Molly’s scowl gave way to a grin as she pushed her elbow into his ribs. ‘Leg _go,_ ’ she huffed in mock indignation. ‘And don’t call me Squeakers,  _Gus_!’

‘If you didn’t squeak so much, I wouldn’t have to say it so much!’ Charlie teased, finally letting her go, but not without ruffling her hair messily.

Pouting, Molly fixed her ponytail and tried to kick Charlie’s shin, but the man easily danced out of reach.

‘You’re her brother,’ Sherlock breathed in realization.

‘Angus Charles Hooper,’ Charlie stated with a slight bow and a smile that mirrored Molly’s. Sherlock berated himself for missing the obvious. There were too many similarities. Charlie’s hair was slightly wavy and cut short, but it was the same, rich auburn as Molly’s. Their eyes were the same brown, like molten chocolate. But the biggest similarity between them was their ready smiles, wide, bright, and sincere.

The biggest difference, though, was that while Charlie was smiling at him knowingly, Molly was wearing her ‘slapping’ expression.

He took an uneasy step back. The deductions flowed unfiltered from his mind to his mouth. ‘Older brother, American, accountant with three children, here on business and took an extended weekend holiday to visit Molly.’ He tilted his head. ‘Which explains why she blew me off in the lab earlier.’

‘Blew you off?!’ Molly huffed in offense. ‘You demanded I bring you coffee,  _at the end of my shift,_  then threw a tantrum when I said I had plans!’

‘You could have told me your brother was in town,’ Sherlock snapped in response, his own ire growing in response to hers.

‘I  _did_! Last week, but, as usual, you ignored me!’

‘I didn’t ignore you, I remembered, but I didn’t realize he was here tonight!’

‘So why didn’t you ask who I had plans with?!’

By now, Charlie was watching the back and forth like it was a tennis match, a huge grin on his face.

‘I didn’t want to seem nosy!’

‘Since when  _aren’t_ you nosy?!’

‘Since I was afraid to hear you were going on a date!’ He bellowed.

Molly hesitated for just a moment in surprise, before jabbing his chest rather hard with her finger, a smile hovering on the corner of her mouth, but her eyes still danced with an angry fire. ‘So next time just ask me on a date yourself instead of following me and jumping to all sorts of wrong deductions!’

‘Next time?’ He brushed her hand aside and rubbed the offended spot on his chest. ‘What makes you think you’ll go out with anyone other than me?’

‘Until you ask me properly, I’ll go out with  _everyone_ but you!’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘That’s hardly a logical argument, you can’t possibly date every male human.’

‘No? Just watch me!’ Molly placed her hands on her hips and glared at him in challenge.

Not three seconds passed before Sherlock broke and he lunged at her, pressing his lips awkwardly against hers. Molly flinched, her hands pressed against his chest. Her eyes were wide and staring into his. She blinked quickly and he was about to step back when her hands fisted his damp hoodie and she turned an awkward lip-meet into a toe-curling snog. Though unpracticed in the ways of kissing, Sherlock was an apt student and every nibble she gave he returned in kind. Breathing was an unfortunate necessity and Sherlock pulled away with an audible  _smack_ , trailing sensuous kisses down the curve of her jaw and neck as she panted in his ear before finding her lips once more.

Beside them, Charlie raised his eyebrows and bit back a wide smile as he respectfully averted his gaze. When they appeared to have forgotten him, he coughed loudly. ‘Well, I’ll just be heading back to my hotel, then.’

Sherlock waved a hand at him in dismissal, his lips still firmly attached to Molly’s.

Charlie shook his head fondly and turned to walk away. One evening not spent with his sister was worth it to see her happy. If that berk didn’t mess it up, no longer would Charlie’s heart ache when he heard the tinge of loneliness in her voice or saw the longing in her eyes as she watched her nieces. It finally looked like her patience with that man was going to pay off.

He glanced over his shoulder to see that they were still snogging, rather passionately. He smirked. At this rate, he’d be an uncle by Christmas.


	74. Of Deerstalkers and Snowball Fights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because it’s so flippin’ hot. And I love snow. And Sherlolly. And Uni!lock.

'I hate snow.’

Molly peeked over the top of her scarf at her boyfriend and asked, in a muffled voice, ‘Why?’

The aspiring detective didn’t elaborate, simply kicking the sludgy powder as they walked along toward her flat.

Unphased by his surliness, Molly’s eyes scrunched as she smiled, her eyes dancing and the tops of her cheeks rosy from the biting cold. ‘I love it. It’s so beautiful and it covers everything in white; pure and new.’

Sherlock scoffed and burrowed deeper into his scarf, tugging the collar of his wool coat up around his frozen ears. Molly giggled and pulled out a cap from her large bag, holding it out to him.

The look on his face was priceless as he stared incredulously at the deerstalker in her hand, coming to full stop. ‘No way. Absolutely not. Why do you even  _have_ that?!’

Molly ignored him and stood up on her tiptoes to place the hat snugly on his uncovered curls. She tugged the flaps down to protect his ears. ‘John and I carry them with us… we know you like to look all macho and posh. So until you get your own to protect your ‘transport,’ suffer with this.’

Sherlock scowled and crossed his arms as she beamed at him smugly. He wouldn’t take it off. Not just because his head was now starting to warm up, but because he could never say no to the spitfire in front of him. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

He glared at her one last time then stomped past her. Behind him, Molly laughed lightly.

He hadn’t taken more than five steps when, without any warning, a snowball hit the back of his now-covered head, exploding and showering him in a storm of white flurries. He froze, turning slowly around.

Her red-gloved hands laced in front of her, Molly blinked at him prettily, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

‘Molly Hooper, did you just hit me with a snowball?’ He asked, incredulous.

The cheeky girl shrugged, but her eyes dared him to retaliate.

He wouldn’t. He was better than that.

Wasn’t he?

She quirked an eyebrow at him in challenge.

No, he wasn’t.

Lunging down quickly, he swept up a handful of snow and packed it tight, throwing it at the enemy. Molly shrieked and danced out of the way.

Laughing, Sherlock made another and moved closer, ducking a return volley and throwing his own, hitting her in the center of her back as she turned away.

‘You dare shoot me while my back is turned!’ Molly gasped in mock horror, lobbing two snowballs right after the other, one hitting him in the gut.

By the time they collapsed to the ground in exhaustion, laughing, they were covered in a plethora of round, white spots. Sherlock wasn’t sure if his face was numb from the cold or from laughing. Beside him, Molly’s giggles had yet to subside. Each time she turned her head to look at him, she burst into a fresh wave. Her entire face was red and tendrils of her brown hair had come loose beneath her cap and clung to her face from the snow and cold.

Sherlock smiled at the sight of her unconstrained happiness. He didn’t want her to stop, didn’t want the moment to end, but his damp trousers were starting to freeze to his skin and the deerstalker was soaked through from melted snow and sweat. So, pushing himself to stand, he held his hands out to Molly and pulled her to her feet.

The smile hadn’t dimmed from her face and she gave him a quick peck, her lips cold against his. ‘I’m thinking a change of clothes and some hot chocolate is in order, don’t you think, Mr Holmes?’

In answer, he grinned and slipped his hand in hers, pulling her along as he ran, her breathless laughter warming his heart.


	75. Sneaking Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little drabble following Motherly Manipulations (Chapter 24). 
> 
> In which more shenanigans ensue. 

Holding her breath, Molly pressed herself against the wall under the stairs as the door above opened. High heels clacked against the wood.

‘Where could that boy be?’

‘Have you called Mycroft? Maybe he’s harboring them.’

‘He wouldn’t dare!’

Molly stifled a laugh and waited as the frustrated women walked downstairs and out into the London street, not noticing the missing woman hiding in the shadows. When the door closed behind them, she slowly moved away from the wall and crept upstairs, heels dangling from her fingers. Her yellow dress trailed behind her and she held the slippery fabric off the floor.

Glancing over her shoulder, she slipped into 221b and locked the door behind her.

‘They’re gone,’ she whispered loudly, setting her shoes on Sherlock’s chair.

Arms slipped around her waist, pulling her back against a tall chest. She leaned back into the familiar embrace as Sherlock nibbled at her neck and grumbled petulantly, ‘I’ve missed you.’

Molly hummed happily and tilted her head back to kiss him properly. ‘Only one more day. And then I’m all yours.’

‘One more day,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know if I can wait that long. They’re a bloody nuisance.’

She turned around and slipped her arms around his neck. With a serious frown, she said, ‘They’re our mothers and we love them.’

‘You’re my _fiancée_ and I love _you_. And for the past three weeks, I haven’t been able to so much as _kiss_ you without them watching, sure I’ll ‘impugn your virtue’.’ He screwed his face in a mock grimace and did a rather on-spot mimicry of Molly’s mother.

‘Well, they’re not here now. And, for all intents and purposes, my virtue was long ago impugned by a fumbling lad back in Uni.’ Her fingers danced across the buttons of his tailored shirt, slowly slipping them out one by one.

Sherlock’s hands trailed along her waist and she shivered when his fingers teased the bared skin of her back, just above the dip in her gown. ‘Is that so?’

‘Mmm,’ Molly smirked, tilting her chin up. Sherlock glanced down at her welcoming lips and eagerly bent down.

Just as her breath caressed his lips, the door burst open and they jumped in surprise.

Their mothers stood in the doorway, scowls on their faces.

‘And what do you think you are doing?’

Molly ducked her head at her mother’s disapproving tone and stepped away from Sherlock. He, in turn, cowered under his mother’s glare and clasped his hands behind his back.

‘We have less than eighteen hours until the Big Event and the two of you are playing hooky from your own Rehearsal Dinner!’ Violet Holmes marched over to her son and smacked him in the shoulder with her tiny, elegant clutch. A small weapon, but no doubt filled with all manners of unnecessary feminine trinkets, based on the weight and the clinking. He rubbed his shoulder and resisted the urge to stick out his tongue.

‘Margaret Hooper, put your shoes on this instant, you’re already an hour late!’ Anne Hooper bustled over and grabbed the strappy heels from the chair. Molly reluctantly put them on, stumbling a bit and leaning on Sherlock’s arm to balance herself. She glanced up at him and giggled when he mouthed _later_ and winked.

‘Come, come, come!’ Violet ushered them to the door. ‘You’ll have the rest of your lives for hanky panky. Now is the time for family!’

Sherlock took Molly’s hand and led her down the stairs. ‘This marriage thing better be worth it,’ he teased, smirking at her over his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. Sadly.


End file.
